


C’est La Vie

by Chamski



Category: Joker (2019)
Genre: Angst, Angst city bitch angst angst city bitch, Eventual Fluff, Eventual Romance, Eventual Smut, F/M, Grief/Mourning, Mental Health Issues, Self-Insert, Slow Burn, Smoking, Substance Abuse, Suicide Attempt Mention, Swearing
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-11-14
Updated: 2019-12-04
Packaged: 2021-01-30 19:28:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 24,960
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21433486
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Chamski/pseuds/Chamski
Summary: Life is hard.Life is unforgiving.Life is a cunt that keeps on taking.But sometimes,Life givesBefore taking it all backEverything in life hangs on a thin line;Tragedy and Comedy,Sanity and Lunacy,Order and Chaos,And all it takes to cross a lineIs a little pushYou meet a stranger,And the ripples of this encounterWill leave scars that Gotham will feel for all of eternity.
Relationships: Arthur Fleck/You, Joker/You
Comments: 10
Kudos: 72





	1. Tope Chanseuse

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Roger Ward](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=Roger+Ward).

Silence was good. It brought you so much peace.

Of course, there was never a true silence; the slight buzzing of artificial fluorescent lighting was never far, neither was that subtle ringing that occurred in your ears whenever the lights weren’t the ones singing to you. They called it Tinnitus, like it was a condition, something bad, but you didn’t mind it. You weren’t sure which of the two was afflicting you now and you didn’t really care to know, but what you were wondering, however, was what that old decrepit woman spitting venom in front of you was saying. She’d been, apparently, yelling at you for a while now but you couldn’t tell exactly how much time had passed since she had started ranting. As soon as she came up to your register, face full of disdain, you knew exactly what you were in for. 

_“Ah, merde… here we go again…”_

You knew her type well, you’d seen countless copies; well groomed, visibly upper-middle class, maybe even higher judging by the expensive rings around her fingers and the fur coat resting on her shoulders. You knew what was coming, it wasn’t your first rodeo, her kind always triggered the same defensive reaction in you, and you could feel it creeping at the back of your skull already. You had scanned one, two, maybe three of the articles she’d unceremoniously dumped onto your conveyer belt, the feeling of disconnect growing stronger and stronger all the while until it felt overwhelming. Though you struggled to keep your eyes in focus now, you could see her face sour, visibly annoyed at your now slowing pace.

“What’s your deal? Is scanning things _really_ that difficult? I see why you work here with those people, you must be slow in the head, too”

You were used to being mistreated by customers by now, but the sting of their words and the frustration of not being allowed to give them a piece of your mind never faltered. You tried to excuse yourself, eyes glazed over now, looking right through the shrew but still somehow managing to use your sickeningly sweet customer service voice, albeit it sounding a bit more spaced out than usual. You made a move to leave your post and flee to the bathroom, the break room, anywhere else that wasn’t here, but it was too little too late and in the space of one or two blinks, you were gone. All surrounding noise slowly drowned out by the ringing now, the sweet, sweet song of peace.

At first, you could still tell what the old hag was saying by the movement of her lips. “Hello? Hellooooo??” she probably shouted, but you didn’t budge, didn’t react. She waved a hand at your face, snapped her fingers and clapped her hands inches away from your nose, but still, no recognition on your part. “Are you high??? Oh my god, you are!!” she shifted gears from ‘mad’ to ‘enraged’ as she managed to somehow convince herself that you were under the influence of... something. She looked around and seemed to be calling out to someone, someone like your manager probably, so she could turn her vitriol to him. You didn’t care much for what she had to say after that, so you nestled comfortably in your state of disassociation until your manager finally had had enough of her yelling and appeared to appease her. You looked on as he, surely, proceeded to butter her up with his usual “I’m deeply sorry, ma’am”, “I’ll make sure to reprimand her accordingly later on, ma’am” and “would you like me to assist you in your checking out, ma’am?” The harpy, seemingly satisfied with your manager’s groveling, threw a look of superiority your way and mumbled something you didn’t care to interpret before packing up her articles and walking away towards another register, your manager in tow. After leading her away, he shot you a reprimanding glance and signaled for you to move away to the back store. Your still body showing no signs of cooperation whatsoever, you remained as you were until the shrieking woman had finished paying for her groceries and walked out, most likely pestering your manager about firing you the entire time. It wasn’t until she was out of sight that your senses started to come back to you, the first of which was your hearing. The ringing gently subsided, the noises of the hustle and bustle of the grocery store slowly taking its place. Your sight came back into focus next, letting you muster a blink or two to try and soothe your now completely dry eyes. And finally, your motor skills came back under your control. You slowly slumped forward, propping yourself up onto your register for support. These episodes, although not seemingly demanding, were extremely exhausting, all of the stress your mind was trying to avoid without fault slamming right back into your body as soon as you returned to reality. You somehow managed to drag your carcass to the break room and threw yourself onto one of the couches that were put at your disposition.

After about five glorious minutes of rest and blissful quietness, a visibly annoyed manager poked his head around the doorframe, very obviously looking for you. Once his eyes locked onto your beached form, his brows furrowed further and he spoke up:

“____, in my office. _Now_.”

All good things had to come to an end, you thought, as you reluctantly pulled yourself away from your favorite couch and underwent the walk of shame all the way to the direction’s office, looking quite pitiful the entire time you imagined. You gingerly knocked onto the door frame to announce yourself before stepping in, closing the door behind you and sitting down onto the uncomfortable chair positioned in front of the massive desk your surly manager was waiting behind. He wasted precious little time to begin tearing you a new butthole.

“Look, I get it, you have a condition or whatever, but you told me you were medicated and that it wouldn’t affect your work performance”

You knotted and unknotted your fingers together to try and manage the stress of the situation better, your knees bouncing up and down in unison.

“I mean—….”

“If you lied to me about this to land this job, you might as well tell me now so we can both stop wasting our time here.”

“N-No, I didn’t lie, it’s just…” You sighed, pinching the bridge of your nose between your thumb and index finger, trying to come up with a good way to word your thoughts. “They cut mental healthcare funds three weeks ago, and I lost access to my therapist, my doctor… my meds, and—“

“It’s the fourth time in two weeks, ____. I can understand that things might be rough on you right now but if you keep this up, I’ll have to fire you for real.” 

There wasn’t much you could say to that, and even if you had wanted to voice an opinion, the words would have caught themselves in your throat and you would have choked on them. You simply lowered your head and kept quiet, nodding slightly in understanding.

“I’ll let you off the hook this time, under one condition.” Your head perked up a little at the mention of getting away with disassociating mid-transaction, somehow managing to look at the man in the eyes for a few moments. “Find yourself a new support system. _Now_.”

“Yes, sir…”

“Now get out of here, I still have to write a report about this. Just… go fill some shelves or something until the end of your shift.”

You gladly left him to his paperwork and scampered back to the store’s floors. Well… out with one problem and in with another.

-OoOoO-

It took an inane amount of time and quite a lot of begging and compromise on your part, as well as a sizeable portion of your savings, but a month later, you had found yourself a new therapist. And boy, how lucky you were; said therapist had solid contacts with a doctor who would be willing to file your prescriptions… for a ‘_small_’ fee, of course. It was a straight up miracle that you had managed to keep yourself composed at work throughout the entire ordeal. The stress was close to unbearable, and more than once you had to run away from your register to go hide in the bathroom and panic, or disconnect in peace. You were scolded more times than you cared to keep track of for your ‘interminable bathroom breaks’ but your luck was seemingly just as endless, and since you were actively working on fixing your medical problems, your manager was willing to turn a moderately blind eye to your extended washroom isolation time. Somehow, it felt like you had survived the apocalypse flying by the seat of your pants. You took a mental note to buy your manager a little ‘Thank You’ gift for his patience. As much as you didn’t like the man personally, professionally, you had to admit that if anyone else had been in his shoes, you would have found yourself jobless eons ago.

Your first appointment with your new medical team was rather by the book. You were asked assessment questions, had to share uncomfortable details about yourself and your past, were diagnosed with the same disorders for the third time and given a slightly different cocktail of medication than the one your previous doctor had prescribed you. Once everything was taken care of, you thanked your therapist, shook the doctor’s hand, pocketed your new pill menu and made your way out of the building.

For the first time in a long time, the walk back home felt relaxing, which was a pretty big deal when you lived in a city like Gotham where the crime rate went off the charts. It felt like you had ran a marathon and finally, you could see the finish line. You had to make a pitstop at the pharmacy before finally crossing that line, however, which was fine with you. Given the length of time you went unmedicated, the place felt like an oasis now, and you were beyond parched. As you went to step through the automatic door, lost in thought and not especially paying any attention to your surroundings, your momentum was broken as you slammed into… someone, presumably. The impact, while startling, didn’t send you flying on your ass, thankfully, but the unlucky bloke you had collided with wasn’t as lucky. You heard his body hit the ground before you even saw him; thin, tousled shoulder length hair all over the place and face a mask of pain. The sight of him crumpled on the floor wincing reminded you of a small puppy someone, you, in this instance, had apathetically kicked to the ground. You instantly felt like the dirtiest criminal in all of Gotham. You deserved the electric chair.

“Oh, my god! I’m sorry, I’m so sorry! I-I wasn’t looking at where I was going at all…!! Are you alright??” You dropped to your knees without a second thought, quickly looking him over, trying to see if you had caused any severe damage. Although still grimacing and sucking air through his teeth, the man managed to reply.

“Y-Yes… I’m fine… I-I wasn’t looking either… I‘m sorry.” Hearing him apologizing to you somehow made you feel double the hooligan.

“No, really, it’s my bad. God, I’m so sorry… can you stand?” He gave a short nod as a reply, but seemed to struggle getting his bearings about him. He propped up a hand on one of his knees to hoist himself up but was clearly still a little too stunned to put enough effort into properly standing up. You instinctively wrapped an arm around his shoulders, resting your other hand under his arm to provide proper support. “Here, I’ll help you up…” With your combined efforts, he finally managed to get onto his feet, although he did let out a small yelp when you applied a little too much pressure to his left shoulder. “S-Sorry…! Oh, Jesus, I hope you didn’t break anything…” He shook his head slightly, as if to dismiss your worries.

“No, no, this is from… another, uh, ‘accident’. I’m fine. Really.” He rubbed his shoulder lightly and rolled it around to dismiss the pain, maybe also to prove to you that he really was alright. 

Now that he was off the ground, you could get a better look at him. He wasn’t very tall, he had maybe a couple of centimetres over you, and if he looked thin at first glance, after helping him up and getting a slight feel of his frame under his clothes, you now knew that he was almost skeletal. His shirt wrinkled, tucked haphazardly into his slacks, the mustard coloured hoodie he wore over it very obviously well-worn. He was haggard, his facial features drawn, but through it all, he still remained handsome. His cheekbones were high, pronounced, his jawline strong and sharp, the shadow of a beard starting to form over it. Though his eyes were sunken and laden with dark circles, they shone bright and green, framed by strong, bushy eyebrows. His nose was long, droopy and wide at the tip, and had a very distinct shape you were positive you’d never seen before. His mouth was sort of on the smaller side, lips thin, the upper one linked to the underside of his nose by a straight, thin but deep scar. Was it… a cleft? It was hard to tell it was so slight. All in all, he looked like a man who had been down on his luck for a long time… and you, you looked like a woman who had been staring silently for too long. You cleared your throat, trying to snap yourself out of your state of observation.

“Well… I’m glad you’re alright.” You let a small smile creep up your face, a small wave of relief washing over you. The smirk seemed to be contagious, as it spread over his lips as well for a short time. It lit up his whole face, erasing some of visible signs of exhaustion from his features. Yes, a smile fit him much better. You shook your head. No more staring, no more staring… “Listen,” you said, still quite unsure where you were going with this, ”I feel awful about this… is there something I could do to make it up to you? It’s too late in the evening for coffee now, but… I dunno, do you smoke? I could give you one or two of mine. I smoke slims though, so there's not much in there...” You dug through your coat pockets in search of your carton. Once you got your hands on it, you whipped it out, flipped it open… and realized you only had one smoke left. It sat head up, auspicious and bright; your lucky reefer. You looked at it for a while, weighing your options, your recent luck streak somehow convincing you that maybe, for once, flipping a fag upside down really did bring you luck. Maybe it could even benefit him… Smiling a little wider now at the thought, you extended the pack to the stranger in front of you, who was now giving you an incredulous look. “Here, take it” eyes widened, he shook his head a few times, lifting up a hand as a polite denial.

“No, no, I can’t—“

“I insist, really. Here” You pulled out the slender little stick and carefully slipped it into his shirt pocket, giving it a little pat or two afterwards to make sure it was secure. “Take good care of it, that’s my _tope chanseuse_.” His surprise shifted to confusion now, arching a brow, he cocked his head to the side a little

“Your… what?”

“... Oh.” You laughed at yourself a little, forgetting for a moment that he probably didn’t know a lick of French and had no idea what you’d just said. “My lucky cigarette. It’s dumb, but, it’s a habit I picked up from my dad. When I buy a new pack of smokes, I pick one at random, flip it upside down and save it for last. It’s supposed to bring you luck.” You scratched your nose a little, now feeling pretty embarrassed for believing in something so superstitious and silly. You wanted to shut up now, you really did, but your mouth just prattled on by itself. “And, hey, I’ve been pretty lucky this past month, so maybe it really works! Hopefully it’ll bring you luck as well.” He blinked a few times, his hand now resting over his breast where the cigarette lay, and stayed quiet. Maybe he was searching for something to say in return, but you couldn’t tell. All you knew was that he was dead silent now, staring at you. The awkward silence settled in your stomach like a pile of rocks. Your embarrassment had reached its paroxysm and your mind was now screaming at you to leave, run, get out; to escape this mortifying predicament you had somehow brought upon yourself. Desperate for a way out, you flipped your left wrist over to check your watch, that you were not even wearing, and faked a surprised gasp. “Oh my god, look at the time! I’ve gotta get going! Well, it was nice running into you, um… literally… see you around!” He opened his mouth as if to say something, but you gave him no time to voice his thoughts as you turned your heels on him and hightailed it out of the pharmacy, face beat red from embarrassment. You power walked your way to the nearest subway station, not daring to look back behind you even once.

-OoOoO-

The whole train ride home, you cursed yourself out mentally for being such an awkward piece of shit. You’d somehow made a complete fool out of yourself yet again, and you chalked up to your lucky streak that the stranger you collided with was nice enough to not flat out call you weird or some other insult. You replayed the entire scene in your head at least fifty times, banging your head against the train cart’s window every time you thought back on a cringe worthy move or word you had made. Other people in the cart shot side glances at you at every ‘thud’ your head made against the glass, probably thinking you were crazy or something. You couldn’t really care less. You just wanted to be home now.

Your stop came up and you shuffled out of the cart and into the dingy station, climbed the stairs back up to ground level and took in a big breath of air to try and clear your mind. Only you forgot that the air in Gotham was poison, the fumes from all the factories surrounding the district your apartment building was nestled into literally choking you to tears. It never failed to remind you why you started smoking. You instinctively reached into your pockets for your packet of smokes… and were reminded of the whole pharmacy ordeal all over again. You suddenly wanted to chuck yourself down the flight of stairs you had just came up from. You shook your head to try and come back to your senses and started the short trek home.

You checked your mailbox first thing after putting foot in the building. You had a small stack of paper waiting for you that evening. You picked it up and silently prayed it would be exempt of any bills. You quickly flipped through the stack; junk mail, add, a stack of coupons for Chinese food (you pocketed this one, Chinese was always good), junk mail, junk mail… bill. Well… it looked like all your luck was in that cigarette after all. Now you felt like crying. You looked the envelope over, wondering what obligation had come to slap you in the face this time. It was probably your power bill. You swallowed your sadness, pocketed the bill and threw away the rest of your mail before climbing the five flights of stairs to your apartment. Once that ordeal was over, you fished your keys out of your coat pockets and struggled to unlock your door, as usual. This place was a nightmare; there was no elevator, the walls were paper thin, the locks were old and rusty and the building barely retained any heat. Not to mention the awful air quality, but that was what made the place affordable to you in the first place. Living in the industrial district had its advantages, but mostly, it had disadvantages. You finally managed to get your door unlocked and you slithered inside your rather spacious studio flat. It combined your bedroom, workshop, kitchen and dining room into one space, but somehow managed to not feel cramped, surely a divine intervention. You took off your coat and unceremoniously threw it in the general direction of your dinner table before making your way to the one closer you had. You slid the little door to the side and knelt down in front of the polished coffee table you had nestled into the enclosure. 

“_Salut papa_, I’m home.” You dusted the framed photograph of your father you kept propped up square in the middle of the table. Had to keep the old man looking proper. You also wiped the small, ornate urn you kept him in while you were at it. Even though he was dust now and surely gave no fucks about any of this, you did. You wanted to keep everything on his little shrine looking clean, you know, out of respect for the dead and all that. “I… ran out of smokes today so, I can’t light one up for you… I’m sorry. I hope incense will do the job…? Please don’t be too mad.” You opened the table’s drawer and pulled out a little stick of some type of musky incense, you didn’t exactly remember what it was supposed to smell like, you hadn’t used it in a long time. You lit it and set it up on the holder before picking up the bottle of wine and the two glasses you kept to the left of the table. “At least I still have some of this good Cabernet you like!” You poured him a drink and set it up on the table before serving yourself one as well. You corked the bottle, set it down and clinked your glass to his. “_Santé_!” You took a sip and savoured it a little before swallowing, sighing a satisfied ‘aah’ as you did so. It really hit the spot, your father had really good taste in wine. “I had a… pretty _interesting_ day. The new therapist is… alright. She kinda gives off this vibe of… not really caring about what I say, but, hey, she got me my meds, so…” You took another swig of your wine, but swallowed faster this time. “Speaking of meds… I went to pick them up earlier, but… something got in the way. It had pretty eyes though, that little something…” Another drink of wine. “Don’t worry though, it’s not like I whored myself out. We just ran into each other, literally. He…” you chuckled a little at the memory. “He went fucking _flying_ dad, I swear. Kinda wish you could’ve seen it, I’ve never seen a man tangle himself up like that over running into someone. Kinda made me wonder if I was made out of bricks of something for a second… I felt really bad, though…” You took another sip. “It felt like… I dunno… like I had slapped him in the face or something, he looked so defeated… he even apologized to me, can you believe? I didn’t think ‘sorry’ was a word that existed to Gothamites…” You paused a little but didn’t touch your wine this time. You pictured the stranger in your mind again for the nth time. His small frame, gaunt features… his striking eyes… “Anyways… in the end, I made a fool out of myself, asusual, so I just ran… Didn’t even pick up my meds or anything. Hahah, I’m such a loser, _papa_…” You polished off the rest of your wine in one swig and settled your glass right back where it came from. “Welp… that’s about everything interesting that happened today. Guess I’ll leave you it. _Bonne nuit_, papa.” You picked up the picture frame once again, pressed your lips against the cold glass, right on your father’s forehead, then put it back down in its rightful place, straightening it slightly before getting up and walking over to your pantry. You weren’t very hungry, and you had precious little food left, so you just grabbed the bag of chips you had lying around and made your way to the workshop area of your apartment. 

Checking out other people’s groceries wasn’t the only thing you did for a living. Just like any other normal human being, being a cashier wasn’t exactly your life goal. You stood in front of your latest work, considering what still needed to be done, and what could be improved, absentmindedly chewing on greasy potato chips all the while. The balance of the painting was still off… should you add a touch of yellow here? Maybe something with a bit more contrast in that area… Just pondering the possibilities made your head hurt. Art wasn’t as easy as every hauty gallery lurker wanted to make it seem… You sat down on your little tabouret and worked on mixing some paints to begin with, deciding on what colours and what tints you would add to the piece, letting the gentle sound of your palette knife sliding over the glass of your mixing board soothe your senses. Without exactly thinking, you ended up with a few shades of murky sea green and teals, with maybe two or three brighter shades of red and orange for some contrast. Pretty satisfied with your concoctions, you set out to select the brushes you would use next. You picked out a few that looked promising, set them aside along with your palette and walked over to, by far, but besides your father’s ashes of course, your most prized possession; your record player. You weren’t one to spend extravagant amounts of money on anything, even being a little bit of a penny pincher at times, but for the arts, you made an exception. You gave your precious Linn Sondek LP12 a gentle caress as you lifted up its cover, exposing its components. You browsed through your vast record collection for a little while, trying to make up your mind as to what to play, and in the end, you settled on your favorite; ’A Night at the Opera’ by Queen. You carefully slipped the vinyl out of its protective cover and twirled it playfully between your fingers once or twice before finally setting it down onto the turntable and carefully positioning the arm over it, making sure not to scratch the record with the needle. You took a few seconds to drink in the first notes of ’Death on Two Legs’ before making your way back to your seat and setting out to fix the balance of your painting.

As always, time slipped away without you taking any notice of it while you painted, pouring out your heart into your work. This, this was your happy place, where you belonged. No matter how bad your day had been, how many entitled customers had yelled at you and demanded you be fired, none of it mattered as long as you ended up here at the end of the day. You worked the paint into your canevas without pause until the last few notes of ‘God Save the Queen’ died out and the song of silence followed. You sighed and, finally, put down your tools. You had imposed a ‘one record a night’ rule upon yourself to avoid painting through the night, resulting in you looking an exhausted mess at work the following day. You put away your vinyl, made sure to close the lid over your record player, maybe even gave it a little kiss, and went to clean up the mess you had made of your working area.

By the time you were finally done and tucked in bed, it was way past 3am. You were thoroughly exhausted, but your day had been productive and you felt a wave of satisfaction wash over you. With the last few coherent thoughts you could form, you thought of the stranger again, and seconds before finally drifting away in Morpheus’ arms, something dawned on you.

“_... I didn’t even ask for his name…_”

-/////-

Author’s notes:  
Thank you, yes, you, for taking the time to read my dumb shit. I know not much happens in this chapter aside from character building, but it’s something that had to be done. I promise to make the next chapter more eventful.

Again, thank you for making it through all of this. Reviews are, of course, very welcome, and I promise to take the time to read every single one of them.

‘Tilll next time, fellow clown fuckers, have a good one.


	2. Lost & Found

A fat thank you to everyone that left Kudos on my first chapter, and a special morbidly obese one for S for leaving that comment. (Thank you, I love you) It warms my cold, dead heart to see that you guys enjoyed what I wrote. I’ll do my best to live up to your expectations.

This chapter contains a lot of French at the beginning , and to accommodate you guys and make sure you can understand everything that’s going on, I’ll include translations in the notes at the end of the chapters whenever this happens. You can refer to those if needed. 

I love you losers and I hope you enjoy this one.

-/////-

_ Flashes of yellow, withered grass. Blurred power lines and scattered trees standing tall in the distance. The gentle rocking of the car and muffled jazz tunes flowing into your ears. You yawned, stretched out your little body and blinked a few times to cast away the veil of sleep still clouding your eyes. You looked to your left, searching for that familiar presence. The smell of cigarette smoke and lavender… _

_ “Papa…?”_

_ A little glance your way, face bathed in sunlight, a little smile at seeing you awake. He takes his right hand off the wheel and strokes your head once, twice._

_ “Bon matin ma puce.”_

_ “Où on est…?”_

_ “Proche d’Orléans chérie.”_

_ “On va où…?”_

_ “On part à l’aventure.”_

_ “C’est où ça ‘lavanture’?”_

_ A little chuckle. His hand slides off your head and to your face, pinching your cheek affectionately._

_ “T’inquiète. Dors ma puce, on va avoir une semaine mouvementée.”_

_ He puts his right hand back on the wheel, freeing his left, taking a long drag of his slowly dwindling cigarette, smoke dancing in the sunshine... You closed your eyes, like the good girl you were, listening to your father humming along the radio as he drove you away to unknown lands. _

-OoOoO-

The blaring screech of your alarm clock pulled you out of the sweet clutches of sleep. You woke up in a jolt, body covered in a thin layer of sweat, vision blurred by stagnant tears. You blinked once or twice, forcing the tears out and letting them roll down the sides of your face towards your pillow. You stayed still for what felt like an eternity, letting your alarm scream, not especially paying any attention to it.

This was your life now. It had been for the last seven months. The only place you could meet with your father now was in your dreams and sleep was the only thing that brought you true peace. As such, sleeping was now the activity that took up most of your time. Mornings became your worst enemy, your poor alarm clocks, because there had been several, becoming the unlucky recipients of your wrath, as if punching them out until they broke was reparations for separating you from your father for the nth time. You didn’t move for a while still, until the unending shrieks finally got the better of you and you sat up quickly, slamming your fist once, twice, thrice on the ‘snooze’ button before finally flipping the alarm’s switch to ‘off’. You threw the blankets off of yourself and shimmied to the edge of the bed, resting your elbows on your knees and cradling your head in your hands for a few moments, trying to keep your wits about yourself. That dream was more of a memory than it was a fantasy. You remembered that day well; the day your father packed you two up and moved you away from your native little village in France to America, seemingly on a whim. You’d fallen asleep in your bed and had woken up in your father’s car, confused but not scared. You trusted that man with your life, right until the end. You sighed, doing your best to stay calm, to not break down, not this early in the morning… tears still filled your eyes, no matter how hard you tried to hold them back. You managed to resist the urge to sob, however, and finally tore yourself away from bed, heading for the kitchen. You mindlessly worked your coffee maker into brewing a fresh carafe, settled at your small dinner table and reached into your coat for your pack of cigarettes, looking to calm the tightness in your chest that had begun to form. You opened the little carton… and found it empty. Remembering the mortifying ordeal that was the preceding day, you flung the empty carton at the nearest wall with as much force as you could muster, howling a frustrated, exasperated “FUCK” at the top of your lungs. Coffee and cigarettes were the only two things that kept you sane in the mornings, and now you found yourself without half. Still enraged, you poured yourself your first cup of coffee and downed that shit faster than you’d ever caught yourself doing before, ignoring the sear the ebony remedy inflicted upon your tongue. You poured another, took one or two sips and left it aside, now somehow motivated enough to get dressed for the day.

-OoOoO-

By the time you reached the nearest smoke shop, you were in a murderous mood. Your nicotine withdrawal syndromes had worsened tenfold and you needed a fix, whatever the cost. You couldn’t get through a day of being berated by ordinary people, who somehow felt like they were better than you for being customers, with a splitting headache like the one that was plaguing you then. You practically just threw your money at the shop clerk when he greeted you with his usual “Hi, how can I help you?” You felt like a cavewoman, the only thoughts running in your head were “SMOKE. NOW” and you were pretty sure that they even burst out your mouth because the clerk quickly started fishing for a pack under the counter. Any pack. Once he put his mits on one, he handed it to you swiftly, pretty sure by now that it was for immediate consumption, and started counting your change. You tore off its plastic wrapping like a lion ripping into a fresh piece of meat, fumbling with the thing once or twice in excitement. You somehow managed to whip out a cigarette without pulling all of them out at once, flipped it in between your lips and produced a lighter out of virtually nowhere, quickly lighting yourself up. The first inhale you took was so long and deep that you swore you could’ve polished off the whole thing in one go, like in those cartoons on TV. Once the nicotine rushed through your system, you exhaled one of the most satisfied sigh you’d ever heard come out of you, practically moaning in relief. Now that you were somewhat back to normal, you slipped the clerk a quick apology, told him to keep the change to make up for your attitude and slithered out of the store, now already five minutes late on your usual morning commute.

Just like any other morning in Gotham, the underground tube was packed with people. You had to push your way into a cart to avoid having to wait an extra five minutes for the next train. Sandwiched between businessmen and office workers, the air tasted like cheap cologne and sweet perfume. You buried your nose into the neckline of your jacket to try and shield your olfactory senses from the chemical assault. Left without much to do while the train made its way to your destination, you observed the people around you a little more attentively. Nothing wrong with a little bit of people watching every now and again, maybe you’d find an interesting face to memorize and do drawing studies with later. Brown hair, a lot of brown hair. A few blond heads here and there, some bleached and some not. Oh, a redhead. Even their eyelashes were ginger, incredible. An older lady with a gigantic mole growing on her face, a man with the longest hair you’d ever seen. So many little things to look at. Though the majority of people seemed to be wearing dark colours, you could see pops of vivid hues through the small spaces between everyone. A little bit of sky blue over here, a pop of mustard yellow over there. Some red in a girl’s hair. With all that staring you were doing, you lost track of time, your stop coming up faster than you figured it would. Turns out people watching was an excellent use of your time while in transit. You slipped through the door of the cart and jogged up to ground level.

-OoOoO-

Boop. Boop. Boop. Boop. Boop. Always the fucking ‘boop’ from the register. You wanted to be deaf. You really, really wanted to. And blue. So much blue, everywhere. Too much blue. A little flash of yellow, and more blue.

-OoOoO-

Work had done a number on you that day. You stumbled out of the store with a headache worse than the one you started the day with. Saturdays were nightmares. There was always so much people that the rush never ended, it was just a constant stream of people buying groceries for 8 hours. You shakily pulled out your pack of smokes and served yourself one, searching your pockets for your lighter for too long before finally finding it. You slowly shuffled your way to the nearest bus stop, holding your head in your free hand the whole time, trying to appease the throbbing. Once you reached the way station, you sat on the curb and waited for the bus in defeated silence. A few loud, possibly drunk passersby hooted words your way. Something about you being “sexy” at first then “a bitch” for not paying them any attention. You paid them no mind, too tired to put up a fight and they simply left on their own, bored. By the time you were done smoking your first cigarette, the bus arrived. You climbed in, paid your fare and crashed into the nearest empty seat you could find, lighting yourself a second tab. You weren’t one to chain smoke, your throat usually way too sore after only one to possible handle another, but you felt like hurting somewhere else than your head. You closed your eyes for the entirety of the ride to the subway, absentmindedly smoking all the while.

You somehow remembered to make at stop at the pharmacy to actually pick up your medication this time, stranger obstacles be damned. None stood in your way this time though, and you were able to collect your prescriptions without much hassle. You also bought some ibuprofen while you were at it, your headache showing no signs of letting up. This escapade somewhat saved you from the afternoon rush hour, which meant you found a seat to sit in while the train took you home. There were still plenty of people in the carts however, allowing you to get a little more people watching in, hoping it would pass time as well as it did that morning. Still a lot of brown hair. Why were there so many people with brown hair? Tired faces everywhere, some even napping. Somehow more colour than in the morning; subtly tinted shirts and more colourful jackets and coats. A lot of pink for some reason, and blue of course but you quickly averted your eyes from that colour after today. Red ties, plenty of those. Shoes, too. Not so much yellow or green, but a little fleck here and there. Oh, purple! Purple was a colour you didn’t see often, it made you stare at that person a little bit longer than you should’ve. They shifted their gaze to you, probably annoyed at the holes you were staring into them, and you had to quickly look away. They probably still saw you looking their way though… you didn’t look back in that direction again. Your stop came and you and a couple of other passengers stood up and made a beeline for the doors. You exited in relative order, each going your own way. As you headed for the staircase, you turned a corner a little too fast and crashed shoulders with a rather burly man. He grunted and spat a “Watch where you’re going, freak” your way, not even daring to look at you as he did so. Resisting the sudden urge to swivel around and spit on him, you simply kept going, too tired and too defeated by the day to stand up for yourself. You simply kept your head low and walked home.

You crumpled to the floor as soon as you crossed the threshold of your apartment and closed the door. You were so exhausted, so tired… it took a lot of willpower to stop yourself from falling asleep right there. But you had to make it up to your dad for not having a smoke ready for him yesterday, so you picked yourself off the floor and dragged your carcass over to his new downsized room. 

“Salut, papa… I got you a little something I thought you’d like.” You put your hands in your pockets, took out the pack of cigarette you had bought that morning and-... You paused. Something wasn’t right. You put your hands back into your pockets, that dreadful feeling you knew too well swelling in your chest already, gripping your heart in a vice.

You couldn’t feel your wallet.

You pat around yourself, panic now officially taking over you. Not in your jacket. Not in your pants’ pockets. You didn’t carry a purse… it wasn’t there. Where did it go? You had to have had it on you when you boarded the subway. Did you lose it in the cart? When you got off? Did that huge man steal it from you when you bumped against him?

“No way. There’s no way… This is a joke.” You checked again in disbelief. This couldn’t be happening. All your money was in there. Your public transportation card was in there. All your IDs… Your breath hitched, it sped up, a shiver went through you.

“Fuck. Fuck. No. No no. No, fuck… FUCK!!” You repeated these two words on loop, first hurling your cigarettes at the wall, then your jacket, and then your bag from the pharmacy, prescription bottles rattling violently. You were apoplectic, so irate that you were bawling. You were in both fight and flight mode, your panic so organically linked to your rage that you couldn’t tell where one began and the other ended. You screamed for a while, unable to put words  
to your fury. You were always so careful to keep your things close to you, you knew how Gotham was, you couldn’t let your guard down around strangers, ever. Hell, you didn’t even carry a purse to avoid being mugged, and you still somehow managed to have your wallet stolen from you. From the pockets you always kept your hands in... You dropped to the floor, drained.

“Why… Papa, why?” You curled up on yourself, screams and rage dissipating slowly until only the sobs remained. Your outburst of emotions having utterly exhausted you now, you stayed huddled on the ground, devout of the necessary strength or will to take yourself to bed. You let your cries lull you to sleep.

-OoOoO-

You woke to darkness and the faint sound of knocking. Where did it come from…? You perked up an ear, trying to locate the source. Everything was quiet for a moment, then the knocking came again, from your apartment door. You slowly lifted yourself off the floor and groaned. The hard, cold ground had done a number on your back... You stretched a little and rubbed your eyes.

“Coming…” You dragged yourself to the door, still half asleep and very much confused. You weren’t expecting anyone, you hadn’t had any visitors in months… It could have been a door-to-door salesman, but, at this time of night? What time was it anyway? You chucked a quick glance at your alarm clock; 11h27pm… A visitor at this hour? You tried to see who it could have been through your door’s peephole but the outside lens had been scratched out, only offering a blurred vision of mustard yellow. God, you’d seen so much yellow today. You unlocked the door and opened it a crack, trying to get a good look at who was standing there, eyes squinted until they would adjust to the artificial lighting in the corridor. Whoever was at your door spoke before you could process much.

“Oh! You’re-… Um, hello. I-I’m sorry for disturbing you so late, but… I, um…“ Your pupils slowly shrinking to accommodate the light, you stared at the man as he mumbled on. Something about him tugged at the edges of your mind. You’d seen this person before… Long hair, bright eyes, peculiar nose and cleft lip… Mustard yellow sweatshirt. It hit you like a train, all at once. You opened the door wider, facing him fully now.

“... Oh my god. You’re… from the pharmacy. Hi…” He replied in kind, looking a little bashful, avoiding direct eye contact with you… Why did he know where you lived? That question settled uncomfortably in your chest, making you feel apprehensive. “... How did you find me?” He looked taken aback at your question, struggling to produce and answer for a while.

“O-Oh, right. This is so weird, a-actually I-...” he slipped his hands into his pockets, fumbling around them until he seemed to have found what he was looking for. “I found this and… I-I just checked for an address, I swear I didn’t-…” now thoroughly curious as to what he was talking about, you fixed your eyes on his hands as from his jacket pocket he produced…

Your wallet.

The heaviness you felt in your chest at seeing this man at your door immediately lifted. Your breath hitched and your knees buckled under you, leaving you sprawled on the floor once again, but this time, in relief.

“Oh, putain… Merci mon Dieu…” you breathed out, ranking your hands through you hair, finding them shaky and clammy. You hung your head for a moment, fighting back the tears of alleviation that you felt welling up in your eyes. No breaking down in front of strangers, no breaking down in front of strangers… Said stranger looked down at you, stunned.

“I-I’m sorry, maybe I should’ve just mailed it to you-....” His surprise quickly morphed into unease, making him fold into himself; head sinking into his shoulders, taking one step back, then two. He looked like he was about to book it, unease tethering on the verge of panic... 

“No no no no, it’s fine; I’m fine, you’re fine, I’m just… really relieved.” You steadied yourself against the doorframe and hoisted yourself up to your feet. The man seemed to ease up a little at your words, letting his shoulders drop to a more comfortable level. “God…. I don’t even know what to say…” You looked at him like he’d just rescued you from a burning building. You stood there like an idiot for a while, stunned. What were the odds that out of the ten million people that lived in Gotham, he’d be the one to find your lost possession. What were the odds that anyone would even return your wallet to you…? You could hardly believe any of what was happening, you felt like you had to pinch yourself. “Uh… are you real? I mean, this is… kind of blowing my mind right now.” After a little pause, he let out a chuckle , running a nervous hand through his hair, scratching the nape of his neck.

“Yeah, I have to admit that it’s a pretty, uh, big coincidence… Hahahah” You chortled alongside him. You were so relieved, and his laughter was contagious. It sounded so peculiar; the stress, the intonation of it. You could tell he was nervous, but that he was trying to play it off. The awkwardness of him made you giggle. Now you looked like two idiots laughing at each other. You did your best to calm your fit, but you couldn’t wipe the grin off your face. You had so many questions… Yes, so many questions, that you would feel rude asking all the while keeping him standing in the hallway. You stepped aside and opened the door a little wider for him. 

“Well, I can’t just let you stand here after you came all this way; come in.” He just about gasped in surprise. The way he reacted, you thought you might not have been wearing any clothes for a second. You double checked, just to be sure.

“Oh-Oh no, I couldn’t, I don’t want to disturb-...” You cut him short, not especially caring if you came off as rude for it. Letting him run away without getting at least some answers was out of the question now.

“You’re not. In fact, I insist. I have wine and smokes inside and you deserve a reward. Come have a drink with me.” He looked incredulous, he was frozen in place. You weren’t sure what he was thinking, but you weren’t letting him go, no way. You stepped forward and hooked your arm to his, gently tugging him your way. “Come on, don’t just stand there.” You kept your grin throughout the entire scene and your tone light, not wanting to scare him off. He finally gave in and let you guide him inside your apartment, still looking mighty shocked that you would invite him in, like it was a big deal. 

You flipped the lights on, suddenly remembering the mess you had made of the place when you noticed the disappearance of your wallet. You groaned, heading towards your discarded coat and medication to pick them up.

“Ugh, look at this mess… Please, sit down; make yourself comfortable. I’ll be with you in a bit.” You gathered your things and put them away in their proper place; leaving your coat to hang on one of your kitchen chairs and putting away your prescriptions in your nightstand drawer. You headed for the closet to retrieve the wine you had promised him as well as the only two wine glasses you possessed. Grabbing the bottle by the neck and the glasses with your other hand, you shot a quick glance at the picture of your father, suddenly feeling a little guilty. 

“Excuse moi, papa. I’ll buy you a brand new one tomorrow, promise…” You stood up, turned your back to the closet and tried to locate your guest. You’d told him to sit, but not where. You scanned the chairs of your dinner table. Not there. The couch, maybe? No, not there either… You scanned the entire apartment and in the end, you found him not sitting, but still standing in the entranceway, looking at the few framed pictures you had hung on the nearby walls. Pictures of you and your father together, mostly. A few landscape shots, pictures of paintings you loved. You watched him for a moment. He seemed entranced, not even noticing that you were looking straight at him. What was so interesting about those? Was he wondering who that bearded man was? Did he figure out the little baby he was holding was you? You cleared your throat and he jumped a little, whipping his head around to face you, looking like you had caught him doing something he should’ve been. You just smiled at him and nodded your head towards your kitchen.

“Come on, I got the wine.” You chirped, making your way towards the table. You put everything down on it, making sure you weren’t missing anything. It suddenly came back to you that you also offered him cigarettes. You jogged over to the living room, looking for the pack of cigarettes you’d previously thrown around in your fit of rage. You found it crumpled in some corner. The packaging looked a little worse for wear, but the contents still looked consumable. You sighed in relief and slinked back to the kitchen. You made sure the table had an ashtray ready, then heard him move from the entrance, finally, and closer to you. You pulled him a chair, gesturing him to sit, then poured maybe just a little too much wine into both the glasses. You put the bottle aside and finally sat down. “Good, we’ve got everything we need.” You picked up your glass and raised it, looking at him expectantly. He took a second to process your intent, then quickly picked up his and raised it as well, his eyes wandering over to your extended hand. You lowered your head a little to catch his glance, your smile spread a little wider. 

“You have to look at each other in the eyes when you do this. Or else it’s bad luck.” You were being a little playful, but he seemed to take you a hundred percent seriously, averting his gaze for a second in embarrassment before locking both of his eyes to yours.

“R-Right. Sorry…” You chuckled, clinking the rim of your glass with his, the both of you staring into each other’s eyes.

“Santé!” You broke eye contact first, taking your glass to your lips and gulping up a large mouthful of the Cabernet you usually reserved to your father. You closed your eyes for a moment, really taking in the taste of the wine. You wondered if the flavour would be the same as usual or the company would somehow alter the taste. Nothing about it seemed different at all, you were a little disappointed. You opened your eyes to see if your guest had partaken in drinking as well. You caught him with his lips still on the glass, his eyes scanning around your apartment. He seemed especially interested in what was on your left; your little painter’s set up. Your latest work in progress was still propped up on your easel, oil paints drying out. You wondered what he thought of it… maybe you’d ask later. You turned your head back around and found him still bewitched by his surroundings. You kept your eyes on him, wondering if he’d even drank any of the wine or if he’d stopped midway to look around. You had your answer soon enough. He caught you staring, suddenly sitting a little straighter in his seat, and tipped his glass forward, taking a little bit of an ambitious swig of his drink. Swallowing hard, he coughed a few times once the wine went down. You chuckled a little at his awkwardness.

“S-Sorry, I don’t drink wine very often…” he cleared his throat a little more and wiggled in his seat, trying to look a little more comfortable. “... I-It’s very good, though. Thank you.” You laughed a little louder, taking another sip of your drink.

“You don’t have to lie. It’s cheap wine, I bought it at the grocery store.”

“Oh…” He looked a little surprised. “Well… still, I’ve had worse.” He followed your lead and took another, more reasonable, mouthful of vino, after which he seemed slightly more at ease. You set down your glass and leaned forward against the table.

“So, tell me…” you began. He put his drink down as well and sat a little straighter, giving you his full attention. “What’s your name?” You were really curious by now. You assumed he must have known yours by now if he looked inside your wallet for ID, but you still had no idea what he was called. His eyes widened at the question, suddenly coming to the realization that he had never introduced himself.

“Oh, I’m so sorry. My name’s Arthur.”

“Just ‘Arthur’?”

“Uh, Fleck. Arthur Fleck…” he wiggled in his seat again, a little embarrassed. He seemed to be pretty easy to tease. You smiled at the thought for some reason, extending your arm to him for a handshake.

“Nice to meet you Arthur. I’m ____ ____ but, well, you probably knew that already, right?” After taking a moment to understand what you meant, he flashed a little smile, eyes lowered, before holding out his hand to you. He shook yours in earnest. His palm was sweaty, but you didn’t really mind.

“Yes, you’re right.” Letting go of his hand after introductions were over, you took the lead of the conversation.

“So, where’d you find my wallet? Was it just… lying in the street or something?” His eyebrows shot up slightly as he began answering.

“Oh, well, no… actually, someone else just… dropped it in the subway. I uh…” he raked his hand through his hair again, scratching at the back of his neck as he had done earlier. “I actually tried to hand it back to them but they insisted it wasn’t theirs… I looked inside for ID and, well, sure enough, it wasn’t their face on your cards.” You nodded as he explained the entire scene to you, absentmindedly reaching for your cigarettes as he did so, quickly lighting one up for yourself before offering him one as well. He, surprisingly, took you up on your offer, thanking you as he produced his own lighter from his pockets. He flicked it a few times… without much success at producing a flame. He tried it again once or twice, brows furrowed in annoyance, before you extended yours his way, even going as far as flicking it on for him. He thanked you, again, before leaning forward just enough to be able to reach the flame with the tip of his smoke.

“You’re very… polite.” He shot up a glance at you, visibly intrigued. “You say ‘Thank you’ a lot.”

“O-Oh,” He sat up straight again, taking a drag of his cigarette before talking again. “Sorry… should I not be?” Now it was your turn to be a little embarrassed. You made it sound like being polite was a bad thing. You shook your head, avoiding eye contact for a little bit.

“Ah, no, that’s not what I mean… I guess I’m just not used to it.” Drawing in some more smoke, you choked a little on the exhale. You’d smoked way too much that day, your lungs felt tired and your throat was raw.

“Are you okay?” You were a little surprised that he’d worry about you just for coughing. You shook your head while you catched your breath.

“Yeah, don’t worry… I just overindulged a little today, that’s all.” You put out your smoke as you said so, knowing your limits when you’d reached them. You had a little more wine to appease the burning in your throat. 

“I’ve been meaning to ask…” you perked up at him taking the initiative to talk for once. Either the alcohol or the nicotine had done something to make him a little more confident and less withdrawn. You urged him on.

“Go ahead, ask.”

“Did you… get robbed?” You knitted your brows in confusion.

“What do you mean?”

“Um, your wallet…” You felt dumb for even wondering what he was talking about.

“Oh, d’uh. Well… I don’t really know for sure. I just noticed it was gone when I got here and uh…” you cleared your throat, cringing a little at the memory of the breakdown you’d had back then. “Anyways, I guess it went missing after I got in the sub. Couldn’t have gotten in without it.” He kept smoking as you talked.

“I see… Ah, I should probably give it back to you, huh…? Sorry for holding onto it for so long.” He held his cigarette between his lips as he dug through his pockets for your wallet, putting it on the table and sliding it your way once he’d found it.

“Ah, thank you so much… I don’t know how to even begin to repay you for this.” You picked up your billfold and opened it up, taking a quick inventory. All your cards were still in place, lucky for you, but as you spread the two folds apart, you found them devoid of any of the money you had stored in them. You sighed, closed up the whole thing and put it back on the table.

“Is… your money gone?” He sounded so sheepish. You wondered why.

“Yeah… well, it was kind of to be expected…” He sighed in turn.

“That’s… unfortunate. I’m sorry you had something like that happen to you.” He ashed his cigarette and took one last drag out of it before putting it out. All things considered, he had polished off the thing faster than you’d seen anyone do in a long time. He must have been a pretty frequent smoker or something. Now that he had nothing to keep his hands busy with, he didn’t really seem to know what to do with them. He linked an unlinked them, rested them on his thighs, put them back on the table. You couldn’t help but crack a smile.

“It’s fine… Don’t be sorry, it’s not your fault. You’re already kind enough to have brought this back to me in the first place, I couldn’t possibly expect any more… Here, help yourself.” You slid your crumpled up pack of smokes towards him. Smoking seemed to put him at ease, and you didn’t want him to feel uncomfortable in your presence. As he seemed to be used to doing, he refused your gesture at first.

“No, it’s alright. I don’t want to abuse your generosity.” You simply pushed the pack even closer to him.

“You’re not abusing, it’s my pleasure. I don’t have guests often so I’m glad to make you comfortable in any way I can. Besides, you look a little… antsy without something to smoke on.” Raking a hand through his hair again, he looked moderately embarrassed that you’d picked up on his nervousness, even though it had been on full display for the last half hour or so.

“Sorry, I’m um… not exactly used to being invited into people’s homes like that… I’m not too sure how I should act…” You sunk back into your seat a little, hooking your arm to the back of the chair and picking up your wine glass with your other hand, bringing it to your lips.

“Bah, you don’t have to act like anything; just be yourself, unwind a little. I promise I won’t mind.” He seemed to ease up slightly at your words, though you could still see traces of uncertainty in his movements. He leaned forward and finally took you up on your offer, pulling a cigarette out of the pack you had slipped his way.

“Alright… I’ll do my best.” He held the little stick in between his lips and he fumbled around his pockets for his lighter, stopping after a while, seemingly remembering that his was on its way to an early grave. “Uh, can I bother you for a light… again?” You could see the corners of his mouth curl up slightly at the request. Still bashful, but at least he deemed to ask you for something. Baby steps. You sat up, all happy to be of use to your guest. 

“But of course! Here…” You picked up your lighter off the table and flicked it open for him once again, extending your arm his way. “All set.” you teased at him a little. He seemed genuinely more comfortable around you now though, leaning over to light himself up without fretting much, even going as far as staying over the flame a little longer than he previously did, making double sure his smoke was well lit. He straightened himself out, thanking you for your assistance, then allowed himself to sit a little more comfortably, spreading his legs some more, keeping an arm at rest on the table. The sight of him allowing himself to take up more space made your heart feel lighter.

“If you don’t mind… I have another question to ask you.” Delightfully surprised to hear him take the lead of the conversation again, you leaned forward, crossing and resting your arms on the table.

“I absolutely don’t. Hit me.” He seemed a little taken aback by how enthusiastic your reaction was, but after taking another sip of wine in order to give himself a bit more Dutch courage, he asked away.

“Your um… your accent, what is it?” You were a little surprised that he hadn’t figured it out yet, but you didn’t mind putting him up to speed.

“Oh! Hahah, and here I was, thinking that it didn’t come through as much anymore. It’s French.” His eyebrows shot up slightly, eyes filled with sudden curiosity.

“French… I don’t think I’ve ever met anyone who spoke French before.”

“Is that so? Well, I’m honored to be your first.” A wide, mischievous grin spread itself across your face as you wiggled your brows at him, making sure your dirty joke wouldn’t fly over his head. A veil of deep crimson falling over his features, he lowered his head in an attempt to hide his blush before letting a few giggles creek out of him. You laughed along at your own joke, but also a little at how fun he was to tease. You weren’t normally one to make salacious jokes, so maybe it was just that the alcohol was getting to you, too…? You took another sip from your glass, a little too happy at the idea of getting drunk with someone else for once. “Hahah, I’m sorry; the French are dirty bastards, I cannot help it.” You hooked your arm around the back of your chair again and took another chug of wine.

“Wait, so… you’re not from here then?” He partook in more of the wine. You shook your head and landed your glass.

“You’re right, I’m not. I immigrated to America when I was 8, and my father and I moved here when I was 10.” 

“Wow… that’s fascinating.” He was fully leaning against the table now; one elbow resting on the edge, forearm dangling out of view, his opposite hand holding onto his slowly shrinking cigarette, too engrossed in your words to notice that it was smoking itself away. He managed to keep his eyes locked into you now, the shadow of a smile floating on his features. His undivided attention made your stomach flutter and you could feel the heat of a blush spreading across your face. You waved your hand around in wide arcs, as if to dismiss his interest… or to chase away the little giddy feeling he was somehow imposing on you. Man, the wine was hitting hard...

“Oh stop, you flatterer, it’s not that big a deal. I’m sure there’s plenty of other people in Gotham that aren’t natives.”

“Well, I don’t know any other than you. Tell me, what’s it like where you’re from? France, I guess?” You’d invited him in in hopes of getting to know more about him, and somehow, the tables had turned on you. It seemed there was no stopping him once his curiosity was piqued… Well, at least you’d learned that he had a curious nature. You reached for the cigarette you had put out earlier and lit it up again, closing your eyes and letting the smoke of it fill your senses, searching within yourself for that familiar feeling… lavender and cigarettes… 

“Hmm… When I think about that place, I remember… big, open fields… and sunshine… I grew up in the countryside, so I guess that explains that... My mom liked lavender, she liked it so much that she made it a business. She planted a whole field of lavender behind our house, she sold the flowers off for a living. The smell was always there… that and the tobacco smoke. My dad liked to overindulge in cigarettes… kind of like you.” You opened an eye to peek at him. He cracked a smile, chuckling and casting his eyes downward in self-consciousness 

“Aah, looks like I’ve been caught…” He raked his hand through his hair again. His fingers were so slender…

“Hey… speaking of tabs…” He lifted his gaze back up to you, mid drag. “Did you smoke the one I gave you yesterday? You know the uh…” You cut yourself off, reminiscing about how dumb you must have looked telling a stranger about a stupid superstition you participated in. Why did you even ask him that? Now you knew you’d had too much wine; the filter between your thoughts and your mouth was weakening... When you turned your attention back to him, you found him with a hand over his breast, feeling for his shirt pocket.

“Ah, um, n-no, I… I still have it… right here.” He fiddled with the hem of the pocket, twisting it between his fingers. You were pretty surprised to learn that he had held onto it in the first place, but even more so at the fact that he was still carrying it with him still. Did he believe you when you told him it was lucky?

“Wait, really? Why?”

“W-Well…” It seemed the short burst of confidence the alcohol had gifted him was now weakening, the stutter coming back to him, eyes darting around, avoiding your gaze. “... you said to take good care of it…” He fished the object in question from his pocket, looking it over. Was he making sure it wasn’t damaged? He rolled it around between his fingers, gently inspecting it. Something about the way he carefully handled it made it seem like a much more important object than it actually was.

“Arthur…” Your mouth spoke before your brain even came up with a thought to voice. His gaze lifted to you, head still slightly lowered.

“Yes…?” Your mind raced to find something to say. Should you comment on how adorable you thought he was acting right now, holding onto that little dingy cigarette like it was a relic or something? No, that was a weird thing to say… Maybe just tell him that he should’ve just smoked the thing and not have given it a second thought… Somehow nothing seemed appropriate. Your eyes darted around a little, looking for things that might inspire you to change the topic of the conversation. Your paintings? No, enough about you. The fridge? Was he hungry…? The time… yeah, what time was it anyways? A quick glance behind you towards the one clock you had mounted up. 1h18am… Wait, already? Had you two really been talking for that long? Wait a minute, when did the subway lines close again…? You whipped your head around back towards him, making him jump a little in his seat. “How did you get here?”

“... What?”

“You took the subway, right?” He arched his brow a little, wondering what you were getting at.

“... Yes, why?”

“The subway line here… it shuts down at 1h30…”He blinked at you once, twice, chuckled a little. Was your horrified face really that funny?

“So?”

“That’s in ten minutes…” He stared at you, face blank for a beat, before letting out a few more little giggles.

“Ahah, you’re trying to pull a fast one on me, huh? There’s no way it’s-....” His gaze fell to the watch he was wearing. His smile evaporated, his eyes widened and his lips parted in shock. “Oh… Fuck.” Looks like it really was that time after all. He scrambled to his feet, now making you jump in surprise, stammering a few “Sorry”s while scuttling towards your front door. You gave chase, scared he’d somehow just bolt out the door and that you’d never see him again.

“Arthur wait!!” He stopped dead in his tracks, to your surprise, and quickly turned on his heels to face you.

“Yes??” … again, you lacked a clear plan. Doing some quick thinking you didn’t think yourself capable of after so much wine, you ran over to your workshop, fetching the nearest piece of paper and the first pencil you could find before zooming back towards the door. You spoke quickly, scribbling your digits onto the back of the art store receipt you’d swiped.

“I had a really nice time and it’s a shame it has to end like this so give me a call or something when you have the chance okay now go!!” You stuffed the little crinkly piece of paper down the pocket of his mustard yellow jacket and opened the door for him, expecting him to dash out as soon as it would creak open… but he just stood there, stunned motionless for a bit. You placed your hand behind his back and gave him a gentle but firm push towards the corridor. “I don’t like having to kick you out like this but if you don’t leg it right now you won’t make the last train! I’m looking forward to seeing you again!!”

You left the door open long enough to see him dashing down the hallway and to the staircase. You heard the pitter patter of his shoes cascading down the stairs and closed the door, taking off to your one street-facing window in a light jog. Through the lampposts lining the block, you saw him running off into the night, yellow sweatshirt fluttering behind him… 

You’d seen so much yellow today…

-/////-

Author’s Notes Pt. 2:  
Oh my god this one ran for way longer than I thought it would. Sorry I put you guys through all that. Hopefully it wasn’t boring to read. I’m so sure it was boring… At least there was a healthy dose of Arthur in this one?

Stuff kick off a bit more from this point on, so please forgive this boring chapter. I’ll eagerly keep refreshing this page every five minutes to check for Reviews until the next update.

Take care, fellow clownfuckers. Love ya.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations:
> 
> “Bon matin ma puce” = Good morning honney  
“Où on est?” = Where are we?  
“Proche d’Orléans chérie” = Near Orléan dear  
“Où on va?” = Where are we going  
“On part à l’aventure” = We’re off to an adventure  
“C’est où ça ’lavanture’?” = “Where’s ‘anadvenchure’?”  
“T’inquiète. Dors ma puce, on va avoir une semaine mouvementée.” = Don’t worry. Sleep honey, we’ll have an eventful week
> 
> “Oh putain, merci mon Dieu” = Oh fuck, thank you God


	3. Jamais Deux Sans Trois

Stale smoke… 

The smell of it is what woke you up. Before the sound of the rain crashing against your window panes, before the light of day filtering through your eyelids; the smell of smoke. You sat up, eyes still closed. No alarm this morning… which means it was Sunday. You sighed in relief. Finally, a day off. Since you had nowhere to be any time soon, you took the time to wake up slowly, staying sat in your bed until your eyes finally decided to open. The smell was so strong, why was it so strong? Sure you were a smoker, but you didn’t smoke nearly enough to leave your apartment smelling like an ashtray. You knew only one person who did… But _he_ couldn’t be here… could he?

You slithered off your bed and to your feet, stretching yourself out while doing so, wringing the sleep out of your limbs. You then set out to tour your home, searching for _him_, clinging onto the thin threads of hope your mind allowed itself to spin. You looked in the bathroom, the only closed room you had. Not there. You turned back to the living room. No signs of _him_ on your couch… the kitchen, _he_ was always in the kitchen, sat at the table, smoking… but not today… You didn’t want to check the closet… You felt a pit forming in your stomach as you approached it, your hands trembling as you grabbed the little handle and pushed the door open… Aah, there _he_ was after all… You hung your head, defeated. The weight of wasted hope brought you down to your knees.

“_Bon matin, papa…_”

… But if _he_ wasn’t the cause of the smell, who, or what, could have been? You furrowed your brows and walked back to the kitchen, where the smell was the strongest. You looked inside the ashtray, counting the discarded filters; one, two, three, four… you couldn’t have gotten through all these by yourself… Oh. Oh. Right.

_Arthur_.  
_That’s_ who smoked up your apartment.

You had a name to put on the face now. It was good to know, it made him seem less of a stranger and more of an acquaintance. Maybe even… a friend? A smile spread itself across your face without you realizing. Was the mere thought of having a friend enough to make you smile? That… felt a little pathetic. Anyways, he still had too many mysteries for you to solve in order to be called a friend. Why was this absolutely average looking man so intriguing…? You closed your eyes and pictured him squirming in your chair like he’d done the night prior, wracked with nervous energy. The way he twisted his hands together whenever his cigarette would run out, how he couldn’t seem to be able to keep his eyes on you for longer than five seconds, his legs bouncing up and down and up and down… And how the alcohol and nicotine had loosened him up a little, maybe for twenty minutes, tops, but just long enough for cracks to form into his defences, letting you see slivers of the man underneath.

Despite his jitters and general unease, it was still surprisingly enjoyable to have him around. His tense, skittish aura somehow wasn’t infectious and you easily kept your cool throughout the whole encounter. It was a moderately big deal to you because, in most social situations, you were usually the one to twist your hands and avoid eye contact and now you had stumbled upon someone who was worse than you at them. It wasn’t something you ever expected to ever see, but now that you had… you felt drawn to him for it. Whatever that meant. You just wanted to know more. A normal human feeling; to be curious about certain people, no…?

It was a crying shame that he ran out the way he did… You barely got any questions in, too. In the heat of the moment, it seemed that the both of you had entirely forgotten about the bus line, which typically ran all day long, or at the very least longer than the subway did. You almost started running after him once their existence came back to you but, well, he ran pretty fast and had already vanished into the night by then. You were a little surprised at how fast he covered the ground between your apartment and the street. For someone so slender he sure could move. You so dearly hoped that the paper you gave him with your phone number scribbled onto it didn’t go flying out of his pockets as he ran… But there was no way to tell now. You sat by your phone, like a teenager waiting for a friend’s call, for some time after he left, expecting that he might call you as he reached home. But all you managed to do was nod off on your couch, only waking up later to give up on the idea of him calling you, and to slink into bed to finish your night. You still had so much you wanted to ask him, but without any tangible way to reach him, the ball was in his court. If you hadn’t scared him off entirely with your new, weirdly pushy attitude, then he would call in time… All you could do was wait. And hope.

-OoOoO-

You spent a lot of time staring at your phone when you were home. Whenever you came back from work, you would run over to your answering machine to check for messages. You even bought a new cassette for it, just to make sure. The first time your phone rang after you gave Arthur your number, you couldn’t help but be frozen in shock for a heartbeat. Suddenly filled with volatile excitement afterwards, you ran over to the phone and yanked the handset off so fast you thought you might’ve broken it.

“Hello??” You sounded way too excited for just a normal phone call, but you couldn’t help it. Unlucky for you though, the voice at the other end of the line wasn’t that of a man, but a woman.

_“Ah, ____? This is Mrs. Adams.”_ Mrs. Adams? Who in the— oh. Your therapist. Instant deception. You slouched into your couch, totally void of any hype you were full of only seconds earlier.

“Oh… Hello.” Now you sounded like someone had asked you to go scrub the toilet bowl with a toothbrush.

_“I hope I’m not disturbing you… This is our first check up call. Do you remember us discussing those?”_

“... Yes.”

_ “Good. So, tell me, how have you been?”_

“Good… I’ve been pretty alright.”

_“Are you adjusting to your new medication?”_

“I… think so? I haven’t really felt anything yet.”

_“These things can take time, I’m sure you’ve been told.”_

“Yeah, yeah, I have.”

_“Have you experienced any anxious episodes since we last spoke?”_ Did she really have to remind you about these? Did you really have to answer her…?

“... Yeah. About…one every two days.”

_“An improvement, then. How about the panics? Any anger issues as of late?”_

“Panics… sometimes. The anger is kind of under control.”

_“How often do you have these panics? Have you identified any triggers?”_

“...” Ah, the worst questions; the kind that poked straight at the wounds in your mind. The kind you don’t want to answer. Too raw, still way too raw.

_ “____, are you still there?”_

“.... Yes, I’m here. Um… I haven’t found any special reason for them.” Lying to your therapist is a terrible thing. “They mostly happen at work, though.”

_“I see. Are they a regular inconvenience?”_

“Yes… I’d say as much.”

_ “Hmm… Well, I don’t know if this is something that would interest you but, Doctor Witter and I have discussed a new potential addition to your prescribed medications.”_ This felt like a telemarketing call… Why did a call from your therapist feel like a telemarketing call…?

“... Oh?”

_ “It’s a new drug on the market, it was commercialized this year. The feedback is very positive so far and we thought that you might be a suited candidate.” _

“Uh… okay.”

_“Would you be interested in giving it a trial run?”_

“... I’ll think about it.”

_“Alright then, we’ll discuss this again face-to-face at your next scheduled appointment. Do you have it written down? Could you read it back to me?”_

“Yes… March 5th, 7h30pm. Right?”

_“Correct. Now, before we end this call, is there anything you would wish to discuss with me?” _

“...” You paused only for appearances, you already knew exactly what you were going to say to her. “Nope, I’m good, thank you. See you on the 5th.” 

You just hung up on her. You weren’t a big fan of having to do therapy and opening up to therapists who didn’t care much for you personally outside of their work hours. You only put up with her for your prescriptions and because your employer demanded you see a professional for your… _issues_. But even with your prior therapist, the meetings felt disingenuous, impersonal… The only person you wanted to talk about your issues with wasn’t going to talk to you ever again. And therein lied the problem.

-OoOoO-

A week went by, your phone still silent. You came back home to two missed calls one day, but no messages were recorded from them. When you tried calling back, you quickly realized that the calls were placed from public phones. Dead ends everywhere. Was it even really him that called? There was no way to tell, only more waiting to do…

-OoOoO-

The next call you received made your heart practically leap out of your chest. You felt like a dog whose master had just came home; stupidly excited, elated… and a little ashamed of it all. Why were you so excitable? Was it weird to be so eager to talk to someone again…? You ripped the handset from its stand and tried to keep the enthusiasm in your voice under control this time.

“Hello?”

_ “Good evening, this is Walter Reid from the Reid Expositions Center. Am I speaking to miss ____ ____?”_ Hearing that name made your eyes double in size. It wasn’t Arthur, but it was almost just as good. The Reid Expositions Center was a pretty well established art gallery in Downtown Gotham. It was smaller than most other exhibition salons in the city, but what it lacked in size it made up for with a really solid reputation. They were picky with who and what they chose to expose in their rooms, but a lot of people had their career in art propelled forward by having one of their collections on display there. You knew that place well, you’d spent a lot of pocket money in admissions there growing up. For a couple of years into your adulthood, you’d even attended to every new showing they hosted. It was pretty fair to say that you liked that gallery a lot.

“Uh y-yes, that’s me.”

_ “Ah, excellent. The intent of this call is to follow up on a portfolio examination you’ve applied for.”_

You’d always been a very passionately artistic person, and in your love of art for art itself, it took you a long time to realize that it wasn’t only a passion; it was also a business. It didn’t cross your mind at all while you were a teenager to build yourself into a professional artist, but ever since your first dead end job at a gas station, you quickly realized that you would rather end yourself than spend your life doing this kind of work to stay alive. So an art career it was for you. You worked long and hard throughout your early twenties to make a little bit of a name for yourself Gotham’s art circle. From commissions to grunt work for galleries, you worked thankless jobs only for exposure or bread crumbs for a long time. It wasn’t all bad though; you learned a lot, both technically and professionally, from the people those jobs put you in contact with and the work honed your skills immensely… but it felt never ending. Exposure wasn’t enough to tear you out of the clutches of corporate greed and it wouldn’t put food on your table either. So for the last two years of your father’s life, you had busied yourself working on personal projects and collections, sending your portfolio to potential employers and passing phone calls to galleries left and right to try and get even one of your pieces on display. You were close, really close… but after that incident, you’d disconnected yourself from everything… including art. It took a long time for you to feel up to picking up a brush again… and now suddenly this? Was this even happening?

“A—…. Wait a minute, the last applications I sent are over a year old already…”

_ “Yes, you’ll have to forgive us for the delay, we receive these types of requests by the truckload and as a result, it can take us a bit of time to reach out to every applicant. The form this call is related to is dated June 21st, 1978.”_ Your mouth gaped. They were calling you for artwork that was over three years old, and you’d sent other applications after this one… did they work their way from the bottom of the pile up or something?

“... I see.”

_ “Are the originals of the pictures you’ve given us still available?”_ You didn’t even remember what you’d sent to them.

“I’m, uh… not sure. Those are pretty old now, but um, I-I’ve sent you other applications after this one… with more recent works…?”

_ “Oh, is that so? Well, the samples I have here are still compelling enough. I suspect your skills haven’t wavered since?”_

“I-I mean, I don’t think so.”

_ “Fantastic. Would you have any availabilities between this week and the next for us to meet and examine your full portfolio?”_ You felt like your eyes were going to fall out of their sockets. You’d sent too many letters and requests for exhibitions or commissioned work to remember the exact count, but very precious little people called you back about them. After your father’s passing, you’d fully given up hope on things like a serious career in art… along with many other things. This call felt unreal. How could you have tried so hard for so long with no results, and now that you’d abandoned all hope, your efforts suddenly bore fruits? Unbelievable.

“Um… y-yes, whatever time is best for you.”

_ “Then, how about… next week, on Thursday. Let’s say… 7h in the evening? At my office in the gallery. I assume you know how to get here?” _

“Y-Yes. Sure, that sounds fine.” You scribbled down the date and time onto the back of your hand, no time to look for paper.

_“Good. Please be sure to bring your full portfolio as well as one original painting, if you would. The original is not necessary but it is very strongly recommended.”_ You kept taking notes on yourself as he explained the finer details of what the meeting would entail.

“Right… I’ll make sure to have everything ready.”

_“Very well. Until then, madame. Please have a pleasant day.”_

“Y-You too.” Now you were the one that got hung up on. You stayed put for a while, still too stunned to move. Your hands picked up a slight tremble, one of your legs bouncing. You reminded yourself of someone you knew… Once the shock wore off, you sprinted over to your workshop. You had so many things you had to get ready; so many pictures to take, dates and mediums to remember, could you manage to produce a new piece in a week? 

So much to do, so much to do…

-OoOoO-

The next three days flew by extremely quickly. You were so busy running around town collecting pictures of old commissions you’d done for people, searching the confines of your apartment for records of paintings you’d done, foraging through the few older works you’d kept around for something that still looked good. You hadn’t been this absorbed into art in a long time. Sure you’d painted a bit over the last two weeks and had considered going to a new exhibit, but to eat, live, and breathe art again like that...It felt good, really good. Extremely stressful due to the circumstances, but still good. Your regular day job was a huge hurdle to the reconstitution of your portfolio, however. It took nine hours out of your day, including transit time, just to serve people you despised. You hoped it would stop soon. Maybe this was your chance to escape that fate… you had to work hard.

-OoOoO-

You almost didn’t hear it, the ringing. The groovy rhythm of _Chic_’s _‘Le Freak’_ drowning out the shrill scream of your telephone. It took quite a few rings for you to even notice it. “What’s that weird noise? Is the record scratched? … Wait a minute—“ You scrambled to your record player to, initially, stop the vinyl, but with the ringing urging you on and your hands full of paint, you just turned down the volume knob and rushed to pick up the receiver, trying not to cover everything in oils as you went.

“Hello?”

_ “Oh! H-Hello!”_ A man’s voice. A voice you knew… Who did you know, was a man and was likely to call you?

“... Arthur? Is that you?” You couldn’t hide the tinge of excitement in your voice. You almost didn’t expect him to call at all anymore.

_“Yes, it’s me…! Y-You recognized me?”_ Looks like the third time’s the charm after all. Your mouth warped into the widest smile you could manage.

“I took a guess, oh, but I’m so happy to hear you! How are you? ...You took your time with that call.” You couldn’t help but sound delighted. You really were happy to hear from him, the one person out there who you somehow felt comfortable around. 

_“I’m good, I’m good… I’m um, sorry that I took so long to reach you. I-I called twice before but...“_ So it really was him who called from the public phones.

“You didn’t leave a message?”

_ “Uh… no. Sorry… I-It’s not really a habit for me, leaving voicemail…”_ He sounded so apologetic, you couldn’t be mad at him. 

“Don’t worry about it, I’m just glad I get to talk to you again.” A little silence. What was hiding behind it?

_“Really…?”_

“Of course! With how you left last time, I wanted to know if you made it home okay.”

_ “Oh! Yes, I made it into the last train by a hair, but I got home just fine… You know, I-I didn’t think about it back then but, isn’t there a—“_

“A bus stop nearby?” A bit more silence, then a short giggle. Oh, you missed his laugh, too. You laughed along, you couldn’t help it. It was contagious, even over the phone...

_“Yes… I guess there was, huh?”_

“Yeah, about four streets down. It slipped my mind too… I remembered about ten seconds after I saw you scuttle around the corner, though!” He laughed a little more, a tinge of it still on his voice when he spoke again.

_ “That’s unfortunate. One of us will have to remember about it next time… Uh, i-if you’d have me over again, that is! N-Not that I expect you too, just—…!”_ Next time… wait, he wanted to come back? You were stunned, convinced you’d been too pushy and had scared him away but… it looked like you were wrong. What a shocker. You cut him off in his ramblings.

“Yes! I-I mean, yeah, sure! Whenever that is. God, I’ve been so busy lately…” More silence.

_ “...Really…? Y-You’d let me come over again…?”_ God he sounded so mousy, but that little hint of relief in his voice… Did he think he’d left a bad impression on you? Christ, how could he ever…

“Of course! I had such a good time with you around!” He stayed quiet for a little longer, maybe processing the fact that you enjoyed his company. Was that a foreign concept to him? 

_“W-... Well, I-I had a good time, too…”_ His voice had lost a bit of volume, as it seemed to do instinctively whenever he was embarrassed. 

“Ah, I’m so glad to hear that. I was afraid I’d been a bad host.” Again, he stuttered over a million words at the same time, finally managing to form a sentence a few seconds later.

_“Oh, absolutely not. I-I felt very welcome… You… said you were busy? I-I hope I didn’t interrupt you in the middle of something… you took a while to answer…”_ Uh-oh. Now you felt guilty for letting this poor, gentle man grow roots waiting for you to pick up the phone. Did he worry you wouldn’t answer him…?

“N-No, I wasn’t really doing anything, just… listening to music a little too loud. Sorry for letting you hang for so long.”

_ “Oh, no need to apologize… S-So, what’s got you so busy? … Uh, y-you don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to, of course...”_ So considerate.

“No it’s fine, it’s something good for once! So, I need to preface this a little but, I think you noticed when you came over that I’m a bit of an artist, right?”

_ “Yes, your set up was… impressive.”_

“Hahah, thank you. Anyways, so I got a call this week…” You explained to him your whole history with the Reid Expositions Center. He listened very attentively, humming little “Mhm”s here and there to let you know that he was following. You were surprised to hear her that he knew of the place, at least by name. “... so I have all these pictures to take and old things to dig up… I let myself get rusty, too, I have to pick up the slack…”

_“That’s… crazy. It sounds like a pretty big deal. I hope everything goes well for you.”_ Such encouraging words… when was the last time someone wished you well like that…? It sent a pleasant heat coursing through your chest.

“Thank you Arthur, I really appreciate it… But! That’s enough about me. How have things been for you?”

_ “Hmm… Pretty okay, I think. Very… ordinary.”_

“That so? Nothing special going on?”

_ “Not especially… Ah, work is very eventful, though. Turns out a lot of kids have birthdays in February…”_

“Ohoh, you work with kids?”

_ “Uuuh… I guess you could say that. I do other events too though. But, yes, lots of kids.”_

“Ooh, ‘events’. Are you some kind of entertainer or something? I’m so curious now…”

_“Ah, i-it’s nothing special…”_ You could hear his embarrassment over the line. Maybe it was a sore subject, you shouldn’t push him too much… _“I’m a, uh… professional clown…”_ Oh. He ended up telling you, just like that. He sounded pretty apprehensive though, maybe he expected you to think less of him or something now that you knew what he did for a living? But you worked a register to survive, nothing could possibly be inferior to that.

“Oh! I’m sorry, I didn’t know I was talking to a professional! ...Do you like it, your job?”

_ “... Y-Yes, I… really enjoy it.”_ He sounded so relieved, so sincere. The heat in your chest roared, your face cramped up a little from smiling so much.

“I’m so glad to hear that. Loving what you do is important…” You paused a little, your words weighing heavily on your heart. You let the silence drag on, your smile slowly waning away.

_ “...don’t you?”_ His voice snapped you out of your pensive state. 

“Sorry?”

_ “Uh, nothing, it’s just that you sounded a little… I don’t know… sad, I think.”_ He picked up on that just from your tone? He had a good ear, you didn’t think you let that much emotion show through...

“Oh no… no, it’s just—“ You cut yourself off. Were you going to lie to him? Could you even manage to say something like “Yes, I love working a register, it fulfills me.” ? And besides, wasn’t lying to people you cared about bad? Wait, you cared about Arthur…? Who was the last person you cared about…? “... you’re right. I don’t… like what I do.”

_“... I’m sorry to hear that.”_ He meant it, you could tell. _“...But, you’ve got that uh… thing with that gallery soon, yeah?”_ Was he trying to cheer you up? So sweet… you were thankful you didn’t have diabetes. Just like that, the smile that had left you returned to your lips.

“... Yeah, you’re right. I should just focus on that, huh?”

_“I think that sounds like a good idea. ‘Look on the bright side’... or something like that, right?”_ He chuckled a little, maybe trying to lighten you up. It worked though, weather that was the intent or not. You chuckled along.

“Yeah, something like that.”

_ “What’s your job then, if… you don’t mind me asking.”_ As if you could.

“It’s cool… I’m just a cashier.”

_“Oh… That’s not so bad.”_

“I… guess it’s fine.” It wasn’t fine with you, though. “But it just feels so… meaningless. I feel like I’m wasting my life away doing this. Like… what’s the point of it, you know…?” Uh oh. For some reason, the filter between your mind and your mouth was thinning again. You didn’t have any alcohol or anything this time around though. Was that just the kind of effect he had on you…? “I guess I just want what I spend my life doing to have some meaning… That’s not a bad thing, right; wanting your life to have meaning…?” There was a long silence on the air. For a solid five seconds, nothing came out of him. All you could hear was the faint echo of his television running in the background. “... Arthur? Are you still there?”He let the silence stretch for two or three seconds longer before finally talking again.

_ “Yes, sorry… It’s just... I was just thinking that—…”_ He cut himself off. Maybe he caught himself about to say something weird? Well now you really wanted to know.

“What is it? You can tell me, I’m good at keeping secrets.” The tiniest of chuckles escaped him. At least he didn’t sound upset.

_“It’s just… it looks like we think alike.”_ Was that all he was going to say? It wasn’t a weird or shameful thing to say, and he had a point. A few times already you’d cut him off to finish his sentence. Now that you thought about it, you cut him off often… Rude.

“You’re right, it sure looks that way. I like the idea of it, though. It’s nice to have someone that gets you… I haven’t had someone like that around in a long time... I’m glad I met you, Arthur.” Aah, now you were laying it on way too thick. You thought yourself lucky that he didn’t hang up on you for being too straightforward. You cleared your throat a little to cut the silence, it made you feel too awkward. “... sorry if that was weird…” He stammered all over in reply.

_“No, no no, no it wasn’t weird, don’t worry… I-I just… wasn’t expecting to hear something like that… I-I’m glad we met, too…”_ His voice weakened as he went on, but you could still hear what he was saying. Again, that huge, roaring heat rose in your chest. If you had worn your glasses then, they surely would’ve steamed up from the warmth. 

“... I-I know we don’t know much about each other yet but… if that’s the case, is it fair to call you my friend, then…?”

_“I—…”_ Suddenly, silence. A long, very long silence. Muffled echoes of… some type of noise, you couldn’t quite tell what it was. Coughing? Laughing? Screaming? Something loud, anyways, loud enough to come through what you guessed was his hand over the transmitter. Did he suck in air too fast and choke on it? Was someone yelling at him? … Was it hilarious to him that you would ask him for friendship…? Did he think you ridiculous now? That familiar vice tightening itself around your heart, the warmth flickering away, fading in the shadow unease… The noises eventually stopped, a minute or two later, and Arthur’s strained coughing filled your ears as he uncovered the transmitter.

“... Are you okay…?” A little bit more coughing...

_ “Y-Yes, I’m so sorry, I—“_ A cough. Another. _“I-It’s all the smoking… It gets to me sometimes…”_ He cleared his throat, his voice settling down a little more. _“I… I-I think... that’s fair...”_ His voice sounded a little coarse still, choked up, muffled… but sweet, full of… some type of positive emotion. Wait, so… he agreed with you? The both of you… were friends? The vice loosened, letting the heat flow through you again, intense and overwhelming. You felt the familiar tingle of tears forming in your eyes. Jeez, to feel so relieved you were crying… What was he doing to you? 

“O-Oh, good… That… really makes me happy.” You worked hard not to let the tears fall and cloud your tone. “... I don’t have much in the way of friends so… Thank you, Arthur.” Ugh, opening up too much again. Something about him just… compelled you to be honest, to speak your mind.

_“... D-Don’t mention it… I-I’m glad I can call you a friend, too.”_ Voice sticky sweet with gratitude, delight… Why did he sound just as happy as you were? Could it be… that he was a little bit of a friendless loser, too? Maybe that’s why the two of you got along so well. Whatever the case, it seemed like the both of you took a lot of comfort in the idea of the other being your friend. You let out a relieved sigh, taking a second or two to collect your thoughts.

“... Well, if we’re friends, then you’ll need to give me your contact info. You know my address and what my phone number is, but I don’t know either of yours.” You wiggled your way to your address book, the poor thing finally being picked up and dusted for the first time in… years, probably. He quickly recited his information to you after apologizing for not doing so earlier, stopping once or twice to make sure that he was remembering things correctly. You happily jotted down everything he told you under his own little entry. You smiled, probably from ear to ear, while looking over all the details he’d surrendered to you.

_“Is that everything you need?”_

“Yep! I think I’ve got everything.”

_“Good, good… “_ His silence stretched out into a yawn, a little one, muffled and stretched away from the phone. You still heard it though, despite his best efforts to dampen it.

“Awh, are you tired?”

_“Ah… “_ He sounded bashful, and a little disappointed, that you’d caught him dozing off. _”... A little. Sorry, I’ve… had a long day.”_You could relate. The roller coaster of emotions this call had sent you on had worn you out. Not that you regretted it. Any of it.

“No need to be sorry. If anything, I’m sorry for keeping you up… It’s getting late, I’ll let you go get some rest.”

_“That’s… probably for the best, huh?”_ You couldn’t help but chuckle a little. The way he sounded, he reminded you of a pouty kid that didn’t want to go to sleep.

“Yep, probably is…” A sudden, naughty idea. “Why, you don’t want to hang up?” Your smile stretched wider, if that was even possible. It wasn’t very nice to tease, so you told yourself you wouldn’t do it to him too much… but only a little wouldn’t hurt, right? You only regretted not being able to see his face.

_ “U-Um… well, uh… I-I was… having a good time… talking to you… so…”_ His voice kept shrinking the more he tried to explain himself, down to only a whisper by the end of it. Your cheeks felt sore from all the grinning you were doing.

“Awh, Arthur... you’re so sweet. Well, don’t worry, I’ll call you back soon alright? Hmm, probably after my meeting at the gallery though, I’ll be buried in work until then.”

_“Alright… I’ll be waiting.”_

“Great! Good night, Arthur!”

_ “G-Good night… ____”_

You had to force yourself to hang up. You had an inkling that if you didn’t, you’d just end up listening to each other breathe over the line for minutes. You stayed sat on your couch for a bit, knees hugged to your chest, slowly coming down from your high. You had officially made a friend. Damn whatever convention dictated how much you needed to know someone to call them a friend, it seemed neither you nor Arthur cared for it. You snatched one of the decorative pillows you had on your couch and squeezed it to your chest, burying your face into it. You let out a bit of a scream… or maybe a squeal, then flipped over to your side and proceeded to roll around on your couch like a demented armadillo. You briefly wondered what was wrong with you, to be so excited at the idea of having a friend. That wasn’t something that everyone else did, right? Having one new friend wasn’t that big a deal to normal people… but it was to you. For once, you managed to let go of the need to feel ‘normal’ and let yourself revel in this strange feeling of glee. You felt like shouting on the rooftops. If only you had someone else to share this overwhelming happiness with… Oh, but that’s right, you did! You jumped to your feet and skipped over to your father’s closet, flinging the door open and crashing down on the ground, on your knees, before the image of your ever smiling dad. After lighting up the last cigarette you had on you and stuffing it down the little makeshift holder you’d made for them, you picked up the little ornate urn he was resting in and held it tightly between your hands.

“_Papa_, you won’t believe this...”

-/////-

Author’s notes:  
Oh man oh boy, look who made a friend!! Congratulations little Unit, we’re all so proud of you. They grow up so fast, don’t they…?

Things didn’t go quite as I planned with this chapter. A lot more was supposed to happen after Unit and Arthur’s phone conversation, but after looking at my word count, I realized it would’ve perhaps been too long a chapter. So I made the executive decision to cut that shit in two. Sorry. Guess you’ll just have to wait a little longer to know what happens next ;)

Also, I’ve started a lil’ Tumblr blog thing for this fic. I’ll be posting updates, some memes and maybe even a few sketches on there, so if you’re interested in staying up to date with how this fic is doing, you can follow it @ clownfricker9000.tumblr.com

I hope I’ll see you there!!


	4. Despondence

“How are you feeling today?”

“... I’m alright.”

“Just alright?”

“Yes… Not good, not bad, just… alright. I feel fine.”

“I see.” Scribbling. “... And how have the last weeks been for you?”

“...” Memories of smoke and laughter. Heat in your chest. “... They’ve been really good.”

“Oh? Are there any particular reasons as to why?”

“... Yes.”

“What would that be?”

“A friend…” Smiling without meaning to again…

“Ah, I see. You’ve made a friend? That’s excellent. Has anything else of note happened?”

“Hmm… I got called in for a meeting to have my work reviewed at the Reid Center…later this week.” Eyes wide now, incredulous.

“Wow, impressive. I’m surprised you haven’t mentioned this earlier. You must be very proud.”

“Mh-hm… I’m nervous, though.”

“A very normal feeling for something so important. I’m glad to hear you’re turning your attention back to art again. It’s a good sign.” More scribbling...

“... I guess so.”

“That aside, how is your anxiety?”

“... _Comme çi, comme ça._ It depends on the day, I guess.”

“Have you experienced any more dark thoughts? Have you attempted to harm yourself again?” Sharp stings along your left forearm. Vivid, unpleasant memories of pain, so much pain... White, sterile walls, smears of crimson, your _Magnum Opus_… You scratched your arm and shook your head. Why did she have to mention that?

“No…”

“I see. That’s very good. How about your anger?”

“... Hmm… it’s not so bad. I… destroyed a pot of sauce at work, though…”

“How come? What did you do to it?”

“It wouldn’t fit right… I-I got annoyed… I threw it on the ground and it just…smashed open. I-I managed to make it look like an accident but… I cut my hand.” You stroked the bandage on your hand with your opposite thumb. Still painful, not healed yet.

“Do you remember smashing the jar?”

“... N-No. It just sort of… happened before I even realized it did…”

“I see. Any other outbursts?”

“No…”

“Alright… Now then, do you remember the conversation we had over the phone? About the new drug Dr. Willis and I were interested in having you try.”

“Ah… Yeah, I remember that.”

“It’s called ‘Alprazolam’. It’s a Benzodiazepine, which means it’s used to quell and prevent panics. I have a prescription here for a week’s worth. It’s yours, you can do with it as you wish. I strongly suggest you at least give it a try, though, the studies are very encouraging.” Something to prevent panics… It definitely had a strong appeal.

“Alright… I’ll give it a try.” A smile. Warm but… not quite. Just a facade...

“I’m glad to hear it. Is there anything else you’d like to talk about today?” Again, you knew exactly what you’d say to her, but you pretended to search for something to say, out of theatrical necessity.

“No… I can’t think of anything else.”

“Very well then.” Scribbling. More notes on you… “You’re free to go. Don’t forget your prescription. I’ll be calling you sometime next week to check up on you and schedule our next appointment. Take care of yourself, ____.” You pocketed the little slip of paper and slipped out of your therapist’s office. Making your way out of the building, a flash of yellow caught your eyes on the way out, making you turn around. You scanned your surroundings, searching for that familiar, specific shade… Nothing. Were you starting to see things?

-OoOoO-

Tomorrow.

Your meeting with Walter Reid was _tomorrow_.

You paced around your apartment, checking your collection of pictures once, twice… one more time. You checked, double checked, read and re-read every little tidbit of information in your portfolio. Everything had to be perfect, everything had to be clean, professional… You had to make sure you’d done everything in your power to leave a good impression. You lit up another cigarette, your fourth now in six hours, and tried to calm down. You walked over to your record player and browsed through your music collection, looking for something that might take your mind off the impending rendez-vous. You picked out a few single track vinyls and settled them nearby, popping _Earth, Wind & Fire_’s ‘_September_’ onto the turntable first. It didn’t take much time for the lighthearted, cheeky rhythm to take over you, making you bop all over your apartment, playing air trumpet with your tab as you sang every line wrong, not really caring, just getting carried away by the music. You ended up playing records all evening, going from _Bowie_ to _Pink Floyd_, touching on a little _Bob Marley_ and even some _Prince_. The music carried you through the rest of the day as you double checked everything for the nth time, chain smoked until your lungs begged for mercy and even allowed yourself to get wine drunk by yourself. As you lay on your couch, _Queen_ now blaring through your sound system, you stared at your phone for a while. Sloshed as you were, all you wanted to do was call your friend. Wasn’t that something normal to want to do; talk to a friend when you’re feeling nervous? You picked up the handset, flipped your address book over to Arthur’s details… and paused. Maybe you were too drunk. Could you even speak without slurring your words? You tried… and failed. No, calling wasn’t a good idea after all. You put down the handset and closed your little register. But oh, how you wanted to hear his sweet little bashful voice cheer you on. There was nothing else in this world you wanted more right now. You craved it so bad… You picked up the phone again, damn the fact that you were almost too smashed to talk, you didn’t need to talk to hear him. Well, much, anyways. You punched in the first three digits; 4, 8, 6–… Your hand froze. No… this really was a bad idea. It was so late by then that he was most likely asleep, like any other normal person would be at two in the morning. And besides, you told him you’d only call back once your interview was over with… Stupid interview. You balled your hand into a fist, shaking it around in frustration as you slammed the handset down once again. You talked to yourself out loud, as you tended to do… pretty often. Often enough for customers at work to look at you funny for it on a daily basis.

“Shtupid fahkin’—… _Nique sa mère la pute. Fais chiiieeerrrrrr_!!”

Oh, you poor thing. You weren’t making any sense. All you could manage was to chain curse words and flop around your living room, sloppy drunk. Calling him was definitely out of the question. You had to keep your drunk self in check, she was a godless mess, a heathen… and prone to be impulsive. You decided to put her to bed, she had better chances of resisting the temptation of calling Arthur that way. If you could have, you would’ve strapped her to the bed… but that was a little too complex for your inebriated senses. You laid there, staring at the phone, restraining yourself from running to it with all your might until Morpheus came to cradle you in his arms.

-OoOoO-

You were such a fucking idiot. Why were you the way that you were? Getting canned five hours before work… That definitely wasn’t the brightest idea you’d had. Dehydrated and looking very much worse for wear, you fueled yourself with ibuprofen and hoped you wouldn’t be fired just yet. You still had twelve hours to get through before the most important meeting of your life, and even then nothing was guaranteed to go your way. No, you still needed your job, so you put on your best smile to please your irritating customers and prayed to whatever God was listening to let you get through this shift alive.

-OoOoO-

You used to find the pure white walls of the Reid Expositions Center calming, soothing. The sterility of them would still your mind, as if absorbing the thoughts straight from your brain. But now… they made you feel restless. So much white… too much white, with only the occasional painting or sculpture to give your eyes respite. The White Cube gallery concept was good for highlighting the art, but it got a little hard on the eyes sometimes, especially if the lights were bright. You paced around the showrooms, looking at the pieces on display. Mister Reid would, if the receptionist was to be believed, come and collect you whenever he would be ready to start examining your work, so you decided that touring the exhibits would be a good use of your free time. Some were from artists you knew of, but most were from people you’d never heard of before. The art was good, though, you couldn’t argue with that. A few pieces definitely made you feel self conscious of your level of skill. If you were apprehensive before, now you were just convinced you’d get laughed out of the place. You tightened your grip on portfolio carrier and kept walking around, taking a little bit of solace in the crystalline sound of your heels clicking against the laminate concrete floor. Onto the next exposition room.

Even before you crossed the threshold to the largest showroom, you were absorbed by it. That huge, gigantic oil painting. It took up the entire wall and was spread over four canvases. It was fresh, or at least as fresh as an oil painting could be in order to be transported, the smell of the paint permeating the air. While the size of it was what initially captivated your attention, the subject was what kept you hooked.

The sea. Nothing but the sea.

You inched closer. And closer. The sheer size of the depiction made you feel as if it was swallowing you up as you walked towards it, leaving you completely submerged into the artwork as you stopped, about two or three meters away from it. Realistic hues; deep teals, cyans, midnight blues. Light, desaturated sky blues and delicate cream froth. Tinges of candlelight orange strategically placed to pinpoint the setting sun’s location. A fleck of yellow… Calm waters with the occasional turbulent outbreak. Scanning the vast expanse of oils made the waves breathe, the motion of your eyes bringing the image to life. It was as much an experience as it was an object. It was…

“Beautiful, isn’t it?”

A loud, thundering voice echoed across the salon, ripping you out of your immersion, making you jump so violently that you might as well have left your skin behind. Your heart slamming against your chest, you turned to face the towering figure of a man; round and wide, but obviously well built; an amalgam of muscle and fat. A chuckle escaped the man as he strolled closer to you. 

“I’m sorry, did I startle you my dear?” He stood in front of you now, hands folded neatly behind his back, shoulders square, chest pushed out. By no means were you a tiny, meek little woman, but just then, you felt like an ant.

“... A-A little…” The giant smiled, lifting up the edges of his neatly trimmed moustache. 

“Again, my apologies. You must be miss ____, correct?”

“Y-Yes.” His smile widened, one of his hands stretching out towards you.

“I am Walter Reid. I’m charmed to finally meet you in person.” You’d never had guessed this man was the curator you were waiting for. With his stature, you would have sooner mistook him for a security guard. You sheepishly extended your hand towards his, hoping his grip wouldn’t break every bone in your hand. To your surprise, his handshake was firm but not crushing.

“S-So am I.”

“You have good taste. I’m rather fond of this piece myself.” He moved next to you, looking up at the marine. “We had it brought in today.”

“...Ah, I can tell.”

“Oh?” Eyes falling back down to you, an eyebrow arched in intrigue. “How can you?”

“Um… The smell.”

“Aah, indeed.” He took in a long breath, closing his eyes, taking in the scent. “There’s nothing quite like fresh oils, isn’t there?”

“Hmm… it’s a smell I know well, but… I don’t know if it’s a favorite.” 

“I see. Well, shall we?” He turned on his heels to lead you out of the showroom and away towards the back of the gallery, the only area in the building where you’d never set foot before. It was always cut off by a typical red velvet rope, which he unhooked for you, letting you proceed before crossing over himself and setting the rope back in place afterwards. The backend was just as clean and sterile as the front of house, only without exposition salons. Only closed rooms, offices, narrow corridors. “This way, please.” Reid’s explosive voice startled you again, which made him chuckle. He guided you through the maze of hallways and to a door whose pane read ‘W. Reid’. He opened it for you and gestured you inside. “After you, my dear.” You slithered inside as instructed and stood around, aimlessly, awaiting further orders. You heard him step in and the sound of the door closing. Click. The man came back into your field of vision, strutting towards his desk. And what a desk it was… humongous, carved and lacquered mahogany. It was so intricately detailed it might as well have been sitting up front with the rest of the exhibits. He sat himself behind it, looking somewhat less massive next to the ginormous bureau. “Please, take a seat.” You quickly obeyed and sat yourself down on the chair facing him. Steepling his fingers, he smiled at you. “Well, now that we’re properly settled, shall we get started?”

“O-Of course.” You finally unclamped your portfolio from your now thoroughly moist hands and settled it down onto his desk, turning it around and sliding it his way. He pulled the large folio closer to himself and carefully unzipped it, opening it wide as soon as he was done, exposing its contents. You had obsessively arranged everything into different smaller folders; one for experimental pieces, another for the abstract ones, the realistic ones and so on and so forth. You had even gone through the trouble of bringing along a physical piece, as Reid had requested. An oil on wood piece that was a little on the older side, but it was one of the rares one you had kept out of pride. You wrung your hands together as he looked over your artistic history.

“You’ve included a lot of material in this. It’s well documented.”

“Ah, well… I-I worked hard to gather it all together.” That was just to be expected though, every artist worth their salt had a well put together portfolio. You scratched at your forearms a little, feeling somehow guilty that you hadn’t put it together before. He slowly, painfully slowly, flipped through the files you had provided, leaving you simmering in the song of silence.

“Hm. I see a lot of commission work.” What was it about his voice that was so startling? 

“Y-Yes, that’s most of what I did for… a few years.”

“What about originals?”

“Th-There’s a few included. The um, the panel is an original…” One of your legs had started bouncing. You did your best to keep the motion down but you couldn’t suppress it completely. You chewed on the inside of your lip as his studious silence stretched on. You darted your eyes around the room, not wanting to stare at him so much. The walls of his office were just as white as the ones in the rest of the building, but they were way more furnished in the way of art than most of the showrooms. So crowded that it gave your eyes a hard time. There was too much to look at, almost no dead space for the eyes to rest. You suddenly missed the vast white expanses of the salons...

“Interesting.” He put down the folder he was holding and pushed your portfolio back towards you a little. “You did such good work documenting everything I didn’t even have to question you.” You weren’t sure if this was a compliment or a reproach. “So, tell me...” he reclined, hands steepling once more. “What was your intent?”

“... Um… m-my intent, sir…?” 

“Yes; what was your end goal when you applied for this review?”

“Oh. W-Well, um…” The bouncing of your leg intensified. “... I-I guess, to have an honest opinion of my work… a-and maybe… i-impress you enough to have some of my pieces on display here… o-one day…” Your voice weakened and weakened as you explained, your eyes barely managing to look at the man as you answered, while he was staring holes into you.

“I see. And what about studies; were you part of an art program? Did you go to University?”

“N-... N-No. I-I don’t have the means…” The itch on your arm intensified. You scratched at it until it was too painful to continue.

“I see... Well, shall I give you my opinion then? It is what you hoped would come out of this, yes?”

“I-If you would…” You felt like you were standing on the edge of a cliff, right about to fall off into the void below. Your heart was beating out of your chest so hard you were almost sure Reid could hear it. He folded his hands and sat up a little straighter.

“Your art is… promising. I see flashes of greatness in your work, but to be perfectly honest, you’re still too green. Way too green.”

Aah.  
And there it was; the inevitable rejection.

You felt that vice tighten around your heart again, only to feel it drop down to your stomach moments later. You lowered your head as he critiqued your collection, looking at your hands twisting themselves together. You nodded slightly here and there, letting him know you were taking his words in. “While I’m not saying commissioned work is a bad thing, it still stifles the creative freedom of an artist. The few originals you have are good, like I said, a little rough around the edges, but still very promising. You might not be ready to have your works exposed in salons yet, but I can tell that if you keep working hard you’ll get there in… a few years, maybe.” It was a very fair critique, harsh but honest, like you asked. But even though it was peppered with compliments and encouragements, all you could hear were the negatives, enveloped in the soul crushing feeling of not being good enough to reach your dream… The shaking in your legs subsided, but the itch resumed; stronger. You scratched, leaving behind raw stripes of newly exposed skin, the seething sting of air on your wounds keeping you grounded, preventing you from crying.

“... I see.” Your voice was little more than a whisper. You couldn’t do any better. There was a stretch of silence, in which you kept your head hung, eyes focused on a piece of dirt stuck to your shoe. Your heard Reid shift around in his chair. You didn’t budge.

“... With all that said, I have a proposition for you.” Now you moved. A jolt of surprise reanimated you, making you perk up, stopping your nails from ripping any further skin off your arm. 

“... You do?” Nothing but shock and surprise in your tone. The man cracked a smile.

“I do. There is something I would be interested in testing out, and I’m hoping you would participate.” He steepled his hands again.

“W-What is it?”

“Consider it… a competition of some sort. Between a few artists like yourself; emerging, promising new names. People like you, who just need that little push to become something great.” You sat there listening to him, trying to understand what he was driving to, twisting your hands together again.

“A competition…? What kind…?”

“Why, an artistic one. Under one theme. Different minds, different mediums, but the same idea, interpreted in so many different ways… I would be very interested in having you take part in this.” You’d done a number of things art related over the years, but never a contest. You’d compared your art to that of others many times yourself and yet you’d never had any of your pieces appreciated next to that of another by a third party. The idea lit up a fire somewhere in your soul. “Aah, and our winner would deserve a reward, yes? A permanent spot in our gallery for the winning piece. How does it sound?” Incredible. That’s how it sounded.

“U-Um, that sounds… perfect. But, uh… how many other participants would there be?”

“If you would join in, it would be a total of 20 artists.” A chance out of twenty for your dream… It didn’t sound bad at all. It was better than just going back home from this meeting completely dejected and in a dangerous state of mind, that’s for sure. 

“... Okay. I’m in” Reid’s face lit up, his arms stretched out in glee.

“Wonderful! And with you, our roster is full. I’ll need you to leave your contact details with our receptionist on your way out. Once the whole operation is set up, we’ll be sending you a letter containing all the details you need to know; theme, deadline and other important little nuances.” He ran you through a few more things that were apparently important before slowly leading you towards the door of his office. He escorted you out to the reception desk and left you there, shaking your hand firmly before slinking back to the confines of the gallery. As he’d asked, you left your information with the woman at the desk, making sure everything was right before stumbling out of the building, stupefied.

-OoOoO-

The entire ride back home, you were in a daze. Lost between the edges of despair and hope, sandwiched between despondency and cheer. You couldn’t decide which emotion should take the better of you and so you were stuck in emotional purgatory. You got home without even remembering the transit. You might as well have been teleported. It was a miracle you didn’t forget your portfolio on one of the subway benches. You shuffled towards your living room and, without even removing your shoes or your coat, dropped yourself onto the couch. You sat there for who knows how long, flowing in and out of disassociation, barely moving. Your mind was fighting itself. “You weren’t good enough. Again. It’s time to give up.” “But you are good enough! That contest, it’s not what you expected, but you’re in! You’ve still got your chance to make it into a gallery!” “A chance to do what? Fail again? He took pity on you, that’s the only reason you were offered it in the first place.” “But there’s still hope! As long as there’s hope, you can’t give up!” It was incessant. Whenever one side would make a valid enough point, and you’d think you could finally free yourself for this emotional torment, the other would come back with something just as sound and yank you right back into your state of disconnect. Your heart was beating out of your chest, your ears were singing and your breaths were shallow. You felt trapped within your own self.

Somehow, throughout the chaos that was your limbic system, a thought came knocking. Wasn’t there something you were supposed to do now? Something that was imperative, something you were really looking forward to… what was it? God, if only you could snap out of whatever state you were in, clear your mind, maybe you could remember what that thing was. You scanned your surroundings a little, maybe something nearby would jolt your memory, if it was something that had to do with your home. Your atelier… no, not that place, nothing good for you there now after today… The kitchen. Was there food you were really looking forward to eating? Hmm, no not really. Only Cup Noodles and chips… The bathroom… a bath? You hadn’t had one in forever. A bath sounded so good… but was that really what you had to do? It’s not like you were filthy, you’d taken a shower that very morning. No, not that… Your bed? Maybe sleep was the escape you needed... but could you even fall asleep in your current state? No, you were more likely to lay on your back and stare at your ceiling for hours on end… Christ, what was it? What did you have to do…? If only you could focus, then maybe you’d remember. If only… 

_If only he were still here  
If only you weren’t so worthless  
If only you could remember  
If only he were still here  
If only you could do something right for once  
If only you could calm down  
If only he were still here  
If only your mind could just_

“SHUT UP, FOR ONCE! LET ME THINK! _SHUT UP_!!” 

You heard a crash. You froze. What happened? Did you just scream all of that? What was that noise? Sounded like glass, shattering everywhere… the wine bottle from yesterday. How did it fly all the way other there? Wait… did you throw it? Why couldn’t you remember? It was only seconds ago… You felt unhinged, your hands shaking, out of breath, barely able to stand… but in this confusion, there was a break of calm. Stillness in your emotions, in your mind, a few precious seconds of respite, of clarity. 

_Call Arthur._

An epiphany that struck you like a punch in the face. Call Arthur. That’s what you had to do. The realization sucked the air out of you, left you crumpled on the ground. How could you even allow yourself to forget? Only one friend in the world and still you managed to forget. Disgusting. You whipped your head around, trying to shake your emotions under control. No; no more of that. You had a mission, you couldn’t let your damaged mind take over and prevent you from keeping your word. You said you’d call him once your meeting at the Reid center came to pass, and you’d be damned if you didn’t. You crawled towards the phone, not far enough from it to warrant you getting up to reach it. You smacked the whole thing down onto your lap, briefly searching your mind for Arthur’s phone number before giving up and tearing through your address book for it. Taking a firm hold of the receiver, you punched in the chain of numbers, your hands picking up another tremble as the line rang once, twice… three times… four… five… Would he pick up at all...? Was he busy? Away…? … Did he figure out it was you and purposely let it ring out…? More ringing… despair slipping its clammy fingers up the back of your neck, raking through your hair… One more ring… You lowered the handset, defeated. You hung it over the base, ready to drop it… and you heard it, just then; a little yelp from the receiver. What was that…? You took the handset to your ear again.

“H-Hello? Hello?? Ah—… fuck.” He sounded pained, somehow out of breath… agitated, also. 

“... Arthur?”

“Y-Yes! ____?” So much hope in his voice. The inkling of a smile floating on your lips already.

“Yeah… it’s me. Are you okay? You sound kind of—…”

“Oh, oh no I’m good. I’m great! I was just, uh… I-I was in the shower, so… I-I’m glad I caught you in time.” He chuckled a little before hissing air through his teeth again.

“In the shower… Did you slip?” 

“...”

“Arthur?”

“Y-Yeah… Don’t worry though, I really am fine! It’s just.. gonna bruise a bit I think.”

“.... Sorry…” Your voice was so faint you barely heard yourself. You twisted the phone cord between your fingers. You felt terrible… it was indirect, but you felt like it was your fault that he’d hurt himself. You could feel a lump forming in your throat. You tried to swallow it down.

“Huh…? O-Oh no, please, don’t be sorry, this isn’t your fault…!” He sounded almost panicked… but why would he? Was apologizing that big a deal? You genuinely felt guilty, and you definitely had a hand in him hurting himself. “B-But how are you? If you’re calling, that means your uh… meeting… thing with the gallery is over, right? How—… How did it go?” Such a rough question right off the bat… You weren’t sure how to answer him. Did it go well? Did it not? You weren’t even sure yourself. 

“It… went. It was… alright…”

“It ‘went’…? What do you mean?” Concern all over his tone. Did he think it went for the worst? Well, with the way you worded it…

“W-Well… Truth is… I-I don’t know. I don’t know how it went…”

“How come?” Everything about him was so genuine. You could hear just how much he worried for you, how he wanted to make sure you were alright. You had someone who cared… The lump in your throat swelled, tainting you speech.

“... I-I was told I was too green… Not experienced enough… try again in a few years…” Only now that you were talking about it did your emotions finally decided to pick a side. And they chose sadness. Sudden, incredible sadness. Your eyes flooded, you had to swallow down a sob. “... They enlisted me in some contest after that but—… I-I don’t know…”

“Oh… Oh, no, I’m… I’m sorry…” Sadness. So much sadness, even in him. You didn’t want to cry to Arthur; you didn’t want to cry to anyone. Even to your father it was hard. You hated the feeling of weakness crying inflicted on you. It left you feeling exposed, vulnerable. Who wanted to be vulnerable in a place like this…? You fought to keep your voice as steady as you could… but it didn’t work very well.

“It’s… fine. You don’t have to fee—… feel sorry for me…” 

“But—… This was so important to you…”

“Y-Yeah… it was.” All your efforts went to hell with those words, your voice cracking up in sobs on the last few. You could practically hear the alarm bells screeching in his mind as he spoke up. 

“O-Oh no, p-please, don’t be upset…” He sounded so alarmed, shaken. You felt bad for pushing your sadness onto him, to force him to listen to you sob across the line. Maybe you shouldn’t have called at all. Maybe you should’ve waited to be of sounder mind, as to not force him to comfort you… no matter how much you wanted to be comforted.

“S-Sorry… I’m sorry, Arthur. I-I’ll ju—… just hang up. I sh-shouldn’t have called… I’m sorry I-I made you hurt yourself…” You took the receiver off your ear, well on your way to hang up, but you couldn’t bring yourself to immediately. You froze for a moment, just long enough.

“N-No no, ____, wait! D-Do you-...” You couldn’t quite tell what he was saying. You didn’t want to bother him any more with your sniffling, but… if he had something to say, you should probably hear him out. You slowly raised the receiver back over your ear.

“... do I what?”

“Do you… want to hear a joke?” His voice shrunk as he went on. It took you aback. Of all the things you expected him to say, this one was pretty far down the list… but now you were curious. 

“... A joke?”

“Y-... Yes? I’ve got um… a-a few.” Was this his plan to cheer you up? Well… it wasn’t the worst of plans. You had nothing against jokes, and maybe it really would change your mind.

“... Okay… tell me a joke.”

“W—… Wait, really?” He sounded incredulous, even though he suggested it in the first place. Though tears were still streaming down your face and your voice still cracked, he somehow twisted your mouth into a smile.

“Yes… go on.”

“Uh… Um, o-okay, give me a minute.” You heard him put down the handset and shuffle away, hissing once or twice as he went. To think you’d somehow contributed to whatever injury he caused himself... You could hear him mumbling to himself, looking for something. You waited patiently for him to return, and return he did, a little out of breath. “____, you’re still here?” Worry… did he think you would’ve hung up?

“Yes… I’m here.”

“O-Okay…” So much relief. The sound of pages turning. “I’ve got it… ready?” The smile he’d plastered on your face widened. You sobbed… or chuckled, you couldn’t tell.

“I’m ready.”

“Alright… ‘What do you call birds who stick together?’” You paused for a little while, giving it a good think. ‘Of a feather’...? No, that was way too obvious. Nothing else came to mind though. You gave up.

“I don’t know.”

“... ‘Vel-crows’...” 

“...” 

“...” You snorted, you couldn’t help it. The wordplay was… genius, pure corny genius. You didn’t know if he knew those types of jokes were your favorite or not, but he hit the jackpot either way. Your laugh sounded choked up, tethering on the edge of sobbing, but it was genuine, full of relief. You were still crying, though. Tears were running hot down your cheeks and you looked a proper mess, but he somehow managed to pull laughter out of you. You were chortling like an idiot and he soon followed suit, sounding a little unsure at first, as if he wasn’t sure whether he’d made you laugh or cry, but his laughter soon came to be filled with relief. Your fit passed slowly, leaving you feeling somewhat lighter afterwards… but the lump was still there, in the back of your throat, making your voice quiver.

“That was pretty good… you got any more?”

“Huh…? Uh, yeah, I’ve got more. You… want another?” Surprise, then happiness… so much happiness. It even spread to you.

“Yeah, give me another.”

“Okay… um, ‘When is your door not actually a door?’” You hugged your knees to your chest with your free arm, leaning up against the foot of the couch, trying to make yourself comfortable.

“I don’t know.”

“‘When it’s ajar.’”

“...” You burst into laughter again. And he echoed you, again, his chuckles filled with glee. Hearing him sound so cheerful lit up that familiar warmth within your chest. Still laughing, you hoisted yourself up onto the couch, no longer able to stand the hardness of the ground. You curled up on yourself, clutching onto the handset for dear life as you let your chuckles die down. “Thank you Arthur. I… feel much better now.”

“You do…? I’m glad to hear it.” You could hear the smile he was wearing in his voice. He sounded so relieved, so happy to hear you laugh, to hear the sadness leave your voice. “... You sound tired.”

“I do…?” Now that he mentioned it, you felt tired. With the day you’d had, it was no wonder. The emotional turmoil you’d been stuck into for the last few hours had worn you out without you even realizing it. You wiggled deeper into your couch, enjoying the warmth and coziness of it, giving in to the blissful feeling of exhaustion that was washing over you. “Hmm… you’re right. I’m tired…”

“I see. I’ll let you get some rest then, yeah?” A chill suddenly came over you, a terrible idea. What if the sadness came back if he hung up? What if you ended up alone, miserable and panicked…? You didn’t want to. For once, you didn’t want to be left alone.

“Arthur wait…” 

“I’m here.” So reassuring… “What is it?” 

“Could you—…” The ridiculousness of your request hit you. Would he even consider it…? It was a childish idea after all. He pulled you from your musing, voice cocooned in a soft, gentle tone.

“I’d be glad to do whatever you need… I’m listening.” Why did he have to be so sweet to you? What had you done to deserve to have someone like him in your life? Whatever it was, you were very glad you’d done it. One or two more tears fell down the corner of your eyes, but those weren’t filled with sorrow.

“... Could you… stay on the line for a while longer? Maybe… until I fall asleep. Or something… I-If you don’t mind.” You rubbed your legs together anxiously, waiting for an answer. You heard him take a breath, a little shaky on the inhale, exhale tinted with… something akin to satisfaction.

“I’d… be happy to, if that’s what you want.” That same mysterious tone floated over his words. You heard him pick up the base of his phone and walk around, maybe to his own living room. You couldn’t tell though, you didn’t know what his place looked like… now you were curious to. You heard him sit down, the omnipresent sound of his television now louder, closer. 

“... what are you watching?”

“What?”

“I can hear your TV… is it something good?”

“Oh, it’s just some movie. Looks like a spaghetti western or something like that.” You chuckled a little more.

“What’s a ‘spaghetti western’?”

“You don’t know?”

“No… I’ve never heard that before.”

“They’re cowboy movies. You know, like the ones with Clint Eastwood.”

“Ooooh, is that what they’re called? That’s a silly name!” You laughed a bit more, dragging him along for the ride.

“Yeah you’re right, that’s a pretty dumb name.” He giggled a little bit more, on his own this time. You let the sound of it fill your ears.

“... Thank you Arthur…”

“Mh? For what?”

“This. Just… being here…” Ugh, you were being way too sappy. Hopefully he wouldn’t mind… it wasn’t often that you were like this, you had no one to be sappy to. Now that you did… you suddenly wondered if it would morph you into a sentimental idiot. The sound of Arthur clearing his throat brought you back down to earth.

“...Don’t mention it. This is… this is nice.” That tone again, what was it…? The same kind of tone you’d use when lying down in bed after a long day. The kind of tone that came with sighs of comfort… You smiled. How couldn’t you? Sweet Arthur...

“Yeah… this is really nice…” A silence fell on the both of you. Not awkward, far from it. It was comfortable, natural, not a silence that needed to be filled. You listened to the buzzing of his TV, the slow, rhythmic sound of his breathing lulling you to sleep. You felt your mind slipping, your body growing numb… and from the edges of sleep, you thought you could hear him speak up one last time. The mellow, gentle sound of his voice resonating throughout your muddled brain.

“Good night, ____”

-/////-

Author’s notes:

This chapter was… so much harder to get through than I thought it would. I wracked my brain for a few days cleaning house in the plot line and it really affected the speed at which this brick got written. I’m sorry for taking so much time to crap out this boring chapter. To be really frank with you guys, I don’t… _really_ like how it came out, but I feel I still did the best I could with it. 

Poor Unit had a hard time… But fear not!! The next instalment will be much more wholesome, maybe even… fluffy? I’m really looking forward to start working on it. 

‘Till next time my little clown fuckers.


End file.
